A patch of sunlight had settled into the low dip in the yard. Henry stepped outside, hands still warm from breakfast, shoes not quite tied. The air held the last of the night, cool against his arms, while the sun reached in slowly.

The light lay across the grass—golden and soft. Henry walked to it without deciding to. It warmed his face. His shoulders. Quiet. Still.

He knelt and pressed his palm to the ground. The grass was cool. Colder than he expected. He waited. The dirt underneath held its warmth—yesterday’s heat, still there.

Something moved near his knee. A beetle. Black. Shiny. Climbing a blade of grass as if it had time. Henry watched. It reached the top, tipped forward, and dropped to another blade. He smiled.

A robin hopped along the fence, head tilted, eye bright. It paused once, then moved on. The yard held both of them for a moment.

Henry reached for a stick. Not special. Smooth on one side, rough on the other. He tapped it against the ground. Thunk. Against a root. Tock. He listened.

Near the edge of the light, a curled leaf had blown into the dip, covering part of the sun. Henry slid it aside with two fingers. The light opened again. The warmth returned to the grass.

The beetle was gone. The robin lifted away, its wings brushing the air.

Henry stood, the stick in his hand. He stayed until the patch of light moved, sliding slowly across the yard. Then he went inside. At the door, he gave the latch one small knuckle tap, then closed it gently.

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