She is seated between columns once meant to mark the steady limits of right and wrong, but the chair is unoccupied, the scales left on the table, tipping toward the side with only the absent weight. In the city square, a courthouse rises from ancient flagstones, its limestone façade worn by seasons of drizzle and the memory of debates held under overcast skies. Even the gargoyle perched above the arched doors, carved with stern, blind eyes, watches over proceedings that now echo with a hollow formality as the magistrate’s seat sits empty.
The script of protocol continues, papers passed from clerk to clerk, fountain pens scratching along the docket. But the heart of the matter is missing: the witness who was meant to speak is lost on rain-darkened streets, his route swallowed by a mist that settles on rooftops, soaking the ridged slates overhead. These old tiles, quarried from mountain seams and shaped by practiced hands, create a patchwork across the city; they shelter homes from the sullen drizzle, channeling water into gutters that run along each eave. The rooftops are muted and dignified, bearing the scars of many winters, a practical crown for the houses below.
Beyond the city, stone quarries lie at the edge of the forest, filled with the silence of labor paused. Here, generations have cut blocks from the earth, stacking them for houses, barns, and the steps leading up to the courthouse. The stonemasons’ tools remain behind: hammers and chisels left where the day’s work ended, their handles damp from the persistent mist. Each tool holds a story of effort, but without hands to wield them, purpose idles in the chill air.
In the kitchen, the morning’s bread rests on a countertop, its crust cooled as if beneath a roof of ancient slate. Steam rises from a chipped mug in the window, where someone once watched for a returning figure through the slow trickle of rain. The teapot sits beside a folded napkin, unused, waiting for the guest who has not arrived. On the windowsill, a potted lavender’s leaves are beaded with condensation, the plant taking in the dim day, thriving quietly by patient roots.
Outside, the midday weather is a hush of drizzle, neither storm nor calm, the mist clinging to coats and umbrellas as people hurry past the courthouse steps. Law books lie stacked on a bench in the vestibule, their spines bearing the memory of order, while proceedings inside drift further from resolution, spun around missing testimony, absent intent. The rain continues, steady and soft, as if preserving the tilt of the scales, inviting reflection on what is left unsaid.
To meet this day, one might pause to place a hand on the cool stone of their doorstep before leaving; tie their shoelaces by the window, watching the rooftops collect the drizzle; write a letter on heavy paper, setting it near the teapot as an invitation still open; or polish a favorite tool, even if today there is no work, honoring the labor yet to come.
Today's lucky color is SlateGray.
Lucky Color: SlateGray — #708090The court awaits its witness; the rooftops hold the rain.