The light came earlier than I expected, already spilling through the upper panes when I unlocked the door. It carried a new angle, sharp enough to catch the dust in motion. For a moment the gallery looked rearranged—same walls, different logic. For a moment the gallery looked rearranged—same walls, different logic. The floorboards reflected a pale strip that hadn’t been there the week before.
I’d forgotten the clocks had changed. My body kept to the old hour, moving at a pace that no longer fit the light. The coffee brewed late; the first email arrived before I was ready for it. Routine depends on predictability, not permission, and March doesn’t ask for either.
Outside, the street was louder than usual. Delivery trucks idled longer in the morning, their schedules apparently unbothered by the arithmetic of daylight. One driver leaned against his door, eyes half-shut, listening to a talk show that still used the phrase “spring forward” as though it explained anything.
By noon the sun pressed directly onto the front window, bleaching the colors in the nearest frame. I tilted it slightly, a quiet compromise with the season. Shadows lengthened where they shouldn’t, corners brightened without reason. The hours ahead already looked overexposed.
Across the street, the hardware store owner was sweeping the sidewalk, his motions crisp and certain. His clock must have made the adjustment without hesitation. A woman passed with a small dog wearing a red bandana; both looked confident in the new alignment. The town was already keeping a different rhythm, one I hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t refuse.
The day will sort itself out, people say, but that’s only true if you surrender to its math. I closed the blinds halfway and watched the thin line of brightness divide the room in two—yesterday’s rhythm on one side, today’s intention on the other. The light didn’t care either way.