Dusk and Dust

Hazy light filters in through the thick forest trees into the dirt-spotted, westward-facing glass pane. Cracks project shadows on the peeling brown paint of the walls. The heat that stumbles into the small room is gentle, and a black tomcat with specks of gray fur basks in the dying glow. 

Cushions next to the window were once a verdant green, but now their color has faded, softened as time has them worn down. Threads stick out in wayward places, trying to escape the net that holds them trapped together.

Goldenrod pillows that rest atop the cushions blend with the liquid luminescence that streams in on a wayward breeze, making particles dance in the air. Though the pillows look rough and ragged, they are stuffed full of the fluffiest feathers. The smell of the seat is ancient, but comfortable and reminiscent of peaceful summers. Dust is the aroma of wisdom it seems. 

Softly, a wind chime twinkles outside as crickets begin to move their wings together, creeping softly as the night approaches. The wood underneath the ledge beside the window is an expensive mahogany, a little warped, but still a rich brown. It is grainy to the touch, but no splinters poke up to possibly tag skin. A thin layer of dust covers it, and it dulls the shine, once meticulously cared for.

A record player still spins on a table and plays an empty sound, the songs having ended long ago, and the needle slightly raised in finality. The records are around somewhere, but there is no one to look for them...Or to listen.

Hanging plants swing above and around, twisting slightly here and there. Their leaves are large and glossy, adding some vitality to the empty room. Overgrown vines suspend themselves in the air, reaching out in various directions for things just out of their grasp. They add a scent of moist earth, contrasting the dry air of the room.

Then, to the left and right shelves and shelves of pages extend holding knowledge, of all kinds. Slightly molded covers of encyclopedias, fantasies bound in leather, diaries of various known writers with words bleeding ink. All of them containing hopes and dreams expressed through beautiful diction and stylized voice. Though they believed themselves to be superior beings, elevated in their higher knowledge, their contents outlasted their authors, their legacy being the only thing that remains. 

One book lays beside the pillows, facedown on its pages, across from the sleeping cat, purring with content. Its title is faded, the writing practically illegible, but it still waits to be picked back up again. However, it likely never will.

The sky dances as its hues travel through different sections of the color wheel, and little imperfections start to peek through. They don’t provide light so much as reassurance. Really, more as entertainment, just another pretty thing to look at.

The temperature slowly dips over the few short hours. It is still comfortable, but in a different way. The ancient tomcat starts to stir, being pulled from sleep as the sun drags down, like a cigarette refusing to go out.

When it finally hides behind the fullest part of the not too far off flora, the celestial bodies can make their full appearances, brilliant and full against the darkening backdrop.

The moon is the grandest of all the little blips. She provides a different kind of lumination, to provide sight to the creatures needing such. She is the reason the dimmest part of the day isn’t the night. No, it’s the dusk.

As the sun sets, and the moon rises, that is when one should consider themselves the most alone, without a watchful kind eye above. Because monsters come from the dark, right?

The tomcat finally stirs from his spot on the wood and stretches his long limbs, flicking his tail amusedly back and forth. The cool air is a nice contrast to the warm air that stagnated all day, but it isn’t ideal for a nap. There’s work to do anyways.

He leaps off the sill and onto the grass, uncut in gods knows how long. They poke and slink by, a few annoying enough to warrant a wrinkled nose. The soil is damp and sinks into the pads of his paws as he moves along, not bothering to look behind.

The house disappears behind him.

The clicks and clatters of countless critters are audible in crevices in circular radii to the wise feline. He listens to their messages and uses them as a guide to the quickest route to his destination. Sight in the night is only so reliable, and extra intel is always appreciated.

As the brush grows higher, it morphs into monoliths of wood and leaves. While there were once simple trails to help navigate, they have since been overtaken. They weren’t needed anymore and died after their purpose was served.

Though the joints of the tomcat were decrepit, his agility was not, weaving on paths invisible to the eye, but known in his bones. Learnt as a kitten and not to be easily forgotten, he reaches the clearing with relative ease.

Glancing back and forth to ascertain that he was the only predator he finally pads into the open. The heavens are still a deep shade of indigo, so he has time.

Using his tail, he begins to trace circles in the grass. Starting wide and from the edge of the treeless space and working in, like a bullseye. The rings are not palpable, but they are resolute, and to avoid breaking them he jumps inward when he wants to begin anew. 

As he repeats the cycle, again and again, the moon creeps into sight, peeking above the silhouettes of branches like a shy child.

Summoned.

The last circle is fairly large, but not enormous. Just perfect size. Finally finished, Fengari sits down in the center and looks up. His whiskers slightly shift when a small gasp of wind passes him by.

It is a full moon.