Cabin at Dawn

Light trickles through gaps in the window linen, invisible until glittering motes whisper of its passage. Soft reflections from woodgrain cast it throughout the room, sending it to uncover what night hid away. From the darkness it pulls a chair, brown leather cracked and broken; a wooden desk filled with the scuffs and tears lifetimes of use carry with them; a tablet of white paper, unmarred by the ink of the pen whose lid it finds on the smooth oak floor; an empty bottle laid sideways, empty but for a thin puddle of caramel liquid. It nestles gently in the corner, among the dust-laden cobwebs and labrador hair.


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