Bellmere Studio

It’s Sunday again. The light outside is bright but indirect, more gold than white. The Wimbledon final is on the television, volume low, players moving like distant punctuation. The fan turns quietly in the corner. Curtains are drawn anyway. There’s no need to watch, only to know the world is still happening. Earlier, a memory came without warning. Not sharp, not resolved. Just present. And now, in the soft repetition of the afternoon, something familiar surfaces, an old piece, once played often, returning on its own terms.

The match continued in the background long after the music stopped. The afternoon didn’t require a decision, it just unfolded. The thought came and stayed. A phrase returned through the hands, then left. The room didn’t feel changed, it was just fuller. Something softened and didn’t ask to be named.