The quiet of my attic, with its dust motes dancing in a single shaft of light, felt like a silent film. I used to sit there, notebook open, and watch the world breathe through the window—no noise, just the turning of pages and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. Those moments were my story, unfolding in stillness, where every breath counted.

I kept a list of things that didn’t need words – a way the light fell on a stack of books, the way the old floorboards creaked when the wind hit the windows. I wrote the moments as if they were small stories, one line about a corner that felt like a secret, one line about how the silence made the dust look like tiny stars. It was more about feeling than telling.