Home alone.

The house is open. It smells of honey and sunshine. The jarrah floors glow with warmth. There is silence except for the breeze, a breath of sunlight in winter. Dust waltzes slowly through the air. Dappled light bounces off the blinds, glinting white and alive off the leather, the wood, the cotton. The ageing pages of a well-read book are lit in vertical stripes, the pages further yellowed by the sunlight. Sunday laziness smothers the house like a blanket.