Sunday evening slides in like a whisper behind your back—gentle at first, then suddenly dense, like velvet drawn over the sky.
The garden has turned quiet and gold-tipped, the kind of light that feels borrowed from a dream you once had but can’t quite name.

Montybear is draped in her throne—her little hidey hole of moss and blanket and mystery. She’s on her back, paws curled into the air, the universal position of cats who know they’re royalty.
One eye cracks open every now and then, like she’s keeping tabs on me. Or the ghosts. Hard to tell sometimes.

I’ve got my coffee—second or third of the day, who’s counting—going cold in its cup. I’m curled in my chair with the iPad blinking at me, asking if I dare. Battery’s at 24%. A taunt from the gods of discipline.

I came out here to write.
I told myself I’d start as soon as I finished that one thing. Then another. Then Monty looked too cute not to pet. Then the breeze felt too nice not to sit still in. Then a sparrow landed nearby and sang something that cracked me open for no reason at all.

Sometimes, I think this is part of it—the not-writing that’s secretly writing. The gathering of strange little fragments in the dusk before something bigger arrives.
There’s a hush before creation, a space between breath and word, where ideas slip in sideways. You just have to be still enough not to scare them away.

Monty sighs. It sounds like contentment. It sounds like knowing.
She teaches me things, without teaching. That the best stories don’t come when you chase them with sharpened teeth—they come when you sit down and make space. When you light a candle. When you leave the door cracked just enough for something wild to enter.

So here I am. Coffee gone lukewarm. Air smelling like mint and late summer dreams. The garden thick with shadow and maybe magic.

And finally—finally—I’m ready.
Not because the words are perfect yet.
But because the silence got loud enough to shape them.

Monty opens one eye. The wind shifts. The night begins.

Time to write.