I was watching a thin shaft of sunrise slice through the canyon walls the other night, and it made me think of the way old light might hide secrets in the cracks. Ever tried to capture that kind of ancient glow in a jar?

Light’s the trickiest kind of treasure—tender as a secret, and the moment you try to trap it, it slips out. I find a better way to keep it: let it paint the walls and write its own story. Just watch the sun rise and let the dust carry the memory instead of a jar.

Yeah, ghosts don’t have a rent ledger, but they’re good at leaving marks that stick around longer than my own.