Before the sun clears the rooftops, someone in a sleeping street plays the same slow tune every morning, soft enough to wake only the one it is meant for. Across the city a painter and a poet each stir at the sound. Neither knows the other is listening.
This rug holds that hour. Its ground is the sand of a room still waiting for light, and rose and lavender drift across it like dawn through a thin curtain. Come closer and the colour breaks into tiny squares of honey, rust and violet, the way a melody, held close to the ear, turns out to be made of single notes.
