A Soft White Brush

The gap between the books turned golden... so I peeked out. The desk was quiet. Just a few steps away, right in a warm rectangle of morning sun, rested a slender wooden paintbrush across an open sketchbook. I crept forward, keeping low... pausing at every faint creak of the floorboards. When nothing moved, I reached out... very slowly. My fingertip brushed against the bristles. They were silky... springing back gently against my skin, softer than the ribbon from last night. I let my hands rest against the cool polished wood beside it... just watching the dust motes float through the light.