She didn’t speak. Speaking would break the spell.

When the light finally moved again, slipping toward the corner, the tea was gone.

It hung in the middle of the room, suspended, as if the earth had stopped spinning for a breath. Inside that gold, dust motes floated like tiny stars. And for a moment — just a moment — she saw her husband’s silhouette. Not as a ghost. Not as a memory. But as a shape within the light itself, sitting across from her, hands cupped around an invisible cup.

One autumn afternoon, she noticed something strange. The sunlight had paused.