A STORY WHERE NOTHING HAPPENS BUT EVERYTHING IS FELT

 

The afternoon light slants across the small room, making the dust in the air visible. The dust doesn’t move quickly; it drifts, as though unsure whether to fall or float. The wooden clock on the wall ticks faintly, not loud enough to be noticed unless one is already listening.

A cup of tea sits on the table. It is no longer steaming, but the rim is still warm to the touch. The surface of the tea trembles slightly when a motorbike passes on the street outside, the vibration faintly carried into the house.

A man sits by the window. His hand rests on the sill, fingers spread as if waiting to hold something. His nails are uneven, one cracked. He does not move. The road outside is empty for a long time, then a stray dog limps across, pausing, sniffing the air.

From the kitchen comes the sound of water dripping. One drop every few seconds. He imagines each drop leaving a small circular mark in the steel sink, though he never checks.

The curtain shifts when a breeze arrives. It brushes his arm. He closes his eyes. For a moment, the entire house feels like it is breathing with him.

The smell of old paper lingers in the corner where books are stacked. Some books have never been opened in years; their spines lean into one another like tired shoulders. A moth flutters close but disappears behind them.

Nothing changes. No one comes. The tea cools further. The light slips gradually toward evening. And yet, in the quiet, every small sound and movement feels amplified—more than noise, more than gesture.

It feels like the world, in its stillness, is whispering something that cannot quite be put into words.