A weekly light — poetry, stories, and reflections from the strange in-between.

There is a department
that handles lost days.

Not the bad ones.
Not the good ones.
Just the days that pass through
without leaving a mark sharp enough
to remember.

The middle days.
The steady ones.
The kind you move through
already tired, not yet relieved,
doing what needs doing
because it needs doing

The office is quiet.
Not empty — just focused.
The kind of quiet that knows
things are being held together.

File cabinets line the walls.
Each drawer labeled plainly:
Midweek.
Routine.
No Follow-Up Required.

The clerks don’t rush.
They know these days carry the weight
so other days can shine or collapse
and call attention to themselves.

People don’t come looking for these days.
No one asks for them back.
They assume nothing happened.

But the department keeps records.

The meals eaten without ceremony.
The drives home where the radio stayed low.
The small decisions that didn’t feel important
but kept the week from tipping.

They log the days where you showed up,
did what was necessary,
and went to bed mostly intact.

At the end of the day,
the clerks shut the drawers.
Turn off the lights.
Lock the door.
Tomorrow, no one will mention today.
The department will reopen anyway.

🕯️ Lantern Note:
Some days don’t want credit.
They just want to be counted.

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