I can feel the day growing shorter. By eight-thirty there is almost no light left, and the house asks again for the lamp on, the blanket on the sofa, the silence that arrives early.
It does not sadden me; rather, it invites me to turn inward. In summer one spills outward; in autumn, one turns back toward oneself.
Today I ended the day with a calm session, one of those where words are barely needed. When we said goodbye, the street was already dark and the streetlamps drew circles of light on the wet ground.
I think about the hours of daylight that leave. They are not lost, they transform: they become firelight, a candle, low conversation.
Perhaps autumn takes nothing from us. It only moves the light elsewhere, and with it the rhythm of the days.
Tonight I light a candle before supper. A small gesture, to keep company with the darkness that arrives without being called.