There is a particular hour in the afternoon when the light softens and the house exhales. Marcus finds it before anyone else. He arranges himself into the sunbeam and closes his eyes, not to sleep exactly, but to listen.
We have been taught to distrust rest. We call it laziness when it belongs to us and wisdom when it belongs to someone we admire. The cats make no such distinction. They pause because pausing is a complete sentence.
Perhaps the finest chapters are the ones we never quite finish — the ones that stay open on the arm of the chair, waiting patiently for us to come back.
