It was one of those cold, dreary days. But to me, that somehow still felt soft and comforting. The sky outside was wrapped in gray. Sometimes you need a day like this — when the world feels less harsh — to slow down.
Inside the house, everything was quiet and still. I was spending some time in the attic, searching through old papers. Eclectic collections of memories were stacked all around.
The air was dusty and unmoving, carrying the familiar scent of old wooden furniture and musty boxes that hadn’t been opened in years. A soft wash of light filtered through the small gable window — not sunlight exactly, just a pale glow that dimmed around the edges of the room.
As I shifted a box, something within that muted light caught my eye — a peek of color, easy to miss on a busier day.
I stopped.
Tucked beneath layers of tissue and time was a suncatcher.
I lifted it carefully. It had a little weight as I held it up to the light. The soft sparkle of color made me smile, and I stood frozen in reverie. A small butterfly stained glass suncatcher, simple and imperfect, its edges softened by years of handling.
Holding it there in the quiet, I could see us again — my father and me, sitting side by side as we made it together. I remembered being young and impatient, and how gently I was taught to slow down, to take care while working with the glass, and not to worry if it wasn’t perfect.
It would work out.
When it was finished, we hung it in the window overlooking the garden. On brighter days, it filled the room with color. But even on overcast ones, it softened the light, making the space feel warmer than it was. It became part of the rhythm of that room, as familiar and steady as the garden itself.
Over time, things shifted. Rooms changed. Houses were left behind. Somewhere along the way, the suncatcher disappeared. I never knew what became of it — only that one day it was no longer there.
Until now.
I carried it downstairs and hung it in the nearest window. Outside, the day remained gray and cold, but the light filtering through the glass was gentle and steady. Color appeared quietly — not bright or bold, just enough to soften the room.
I stood there longer than I meant to.
Admiring.
Remembering.
The garden outside had changed. So had I. But the suncatcher held the light the same way it always had — patient, unassuming, waiting.
That’s what a suncatcher does.
And I remembered: things will work out…….