The house is quiet, but the way old houses are quiet

The house is quiet, but the way old houses are quiet—full of the soft hum of things that have been touched and left behind. A coffee mug on the table, cooling. A phone turned face‑down, screen dark. Outside, the Madrid street is a slow blur of voices, distant laughter, the intermittent hiss of an electric scooter.

Inside, there is only this:
one thought coming after another, stacking like pages turned without a book. Not a story, not even a draft of one. Just the rhythm of the mind when it is not asked to perform.

There is a chair by the window.
There is a sky that is neither blue nor gray, but somewhere in between.
There is a cat that walks through the room as if it has never been told it belongs to anyone.

Time doesn’t feel like a demand today.
It feels like a drift.
Like a sentence that forgot to end.

And maybe that’s enough.