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The sun was low. It made a warm square on the floor. I sat in the chair and watched the dust move in the light. The house was quiet.

There was a list in my head. A list of things to do. Emails to send. Work to finish. The floor needed to be swept. That list was always there. Some days it was loud. Today it was quiet. Just a thing in the back of my mind.

I could get up. I could start on the list. One thing, and then the next. The day would feel full. It would feel productive. But my legs did not move. My hands rested on the arms of the chair.

The quiet was heavy. A good kind of heavy. Like a blanket. The hum of the refrigerator started and stopped. Outside, a car passed on the street. The sounds were clear. Separate. On a busy day, there is only noise. Today, there were sounds.

I thought about the list again. About the feeling of crossing things off. A small feeling. But my body felt heavy too. A tired, deep-in-the-bones feeling. The kind of tired that work does not cause, and sleep does not fix.

The square of sun moved across the floorboards. Slowly. I watched it. I did not check the time. There was just the sun, and the dust, and the quiet. My breathing was slow. My shoulders felt lower than they were this morning.

This was not productivity. Nothing was being made. Nothing was being fixed. But something was happening. A slow unwinding. The tight knot in my chest felt a little looser.

The sun touched the leg of the coffee table. The list in my head was gone. There was only the room. The warmth on the floor. The feeling of being still.

Maybe this is its own kind of work. The work of getting ready for tomorrow. Not less productive. Just a different kind. A quieter kind. A day to let the dust settle.