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The sky was still the colour of paper before anything has been written on it. Branches stood without opinion, holding a thin rim of frost. The light did not arrive so much as admit itself.

A single bird, somewhere out of frame, marked the hour without asking permission.

Steam curled from a cup left on the windowsill. The kettle had long since gone quiet, yet the room held its warmth like an agreement. Outside, fog leaned into the field and did not hurry.

For a few minutes nothing in particular happened, and it was very nearly enough.

The sun cleared the trees and sat unbothered at the top of the afternoon. Pavements dried in uneven patches. Somewhere a dog asked a question of the sky and did not wait for an answer.

It was, for a brief interval, possible to be warm in the right kind of coat.

Light lengthened across the desk in the slow, patient way of December. A page was turned. The radiator cleared its throat once and then continued its argument with itself.

A pencil, sharpened to a good point, waited for something small and precise to be said.

The horizon went the colour of a bruise that had decided to heal. Streetlamps, one by one, accepted their part in things. A cyclist passed without a sound and was already elsewhere.

The day, which had been so particular, began to generalise itself.

A lamp made its small, yellow claim on the kitchen. Water was placed on a boil for no pressing reason. Outside, the wind practised the first line of a song it would not finish.

The windows gave back the room, softened, with the day folded neatly into its corners.