It doesn’t look like anything special in the morning.
A narrow shelf on the wall, slightly bowed in the middle. The paint is darker where books have been moved back and forward. Three paperbacks. One hardback that doesn’t quite fit. A gap where something used to be.
By eleven, the light reaches the edge and stops. It sits just short. The spines stay flat.
After three, it lands properly.
Low enough to clear the building opposite. Angled just enough to hit the wall without flattening it. It catches the edges first. Corners. A slight lift where one cover has been bent back too far.
A thin line where a sticker used to be. A crease running most of the height of one spine. Dust along the top edge of the hardback.
There’s a chair nearby. Slightly off to one side. Straight on is too much. From the angle, it holds.
The window is off to the left. You don’t look at it. The light shifts anyway. A few centimetres over an hour. Enough to move the line across the shelf.
The Lutron blinds are half set. Not open. Not closed.
One of the thinner books gets picked up. Not the one you’d expect. The spine is faded. Harder to read unless the light hits it directly.
Opened somewhere near the middle.
A line halfway down the page is pressed deeper than the rest. Held there longer. You don’t read it all.
The light moves again while it’s in your hands. Slightly off now.
It goes back a few millimetres out from where it was.
By early evening, the shelf is flat again.
Nothing catching.
