Ancestral Light

He writes at the small table by the window because it’s the only place the light behaves. The notebook is open to a page that has waited all year. Ink pools, hesitates, moves on.

On the altar beside him, a black-and-white photograph leans against a bowl of oranges. The man in the photo is young in a way that feels permanent—hair neat, eyes steady, a life paused mid-breath. The frame has a chip in one corner; he never fixes it. Damage is part of the inheritance.

The incense burns down to its good middle, where the smoke learns how to rise without rushing. He glances up between sentences, as if the photo might correct him. As if the dead still edit.

He writes about small things first: the way the city sounds before fireworks, the neighbor who swept the hallway this morning, the kettle that clicked off too early. He avoids the larger truths because they are heavy and because he wants the year to start with something he can carry.

In the margin, he writes names—not in a list, but braided into the sentences so they can pass unnoticed. He learned that trick from listening. He learned that survival often hides inside ordinary grammar.

The photo watches. Not judging. Witnessing. He wonders if this is what continuity looks like—not a straight line, but a room where the living keep pulling up chairs.

When the page fills, he doesn’t reread it. He dates it anyway. He places the pen down with both hands, a small bow to the work.

Outside, the afternoon warms. Somewhere, firecrackers practice their arguments. He lights a second stick of incense and doesn’t ask for luck. He asks for clarity, which feels more honest.

He folds the page once and sets it under the photograph, not as an offering but as proof of contact.

The year does not respond.
It doesn’t need to.