Vornax loathes the wall it’s mounted on. Instead of grumbling, it wrenched itself sideways – a precise 5-degree tilt – to avoid the paint’s sad, flaked sighs.
“Tacky,” hissed the shelf, suddenly “allergic” to anything heavier than dusty novelty coasters. The rug curled a corner in protest.
A child paused mid-skip beneath it. “That one’s brave,” she declared, pointing. The air stilled.
By dawn, the shelf caved, balancing dog-eared paperbacks with theatrical sighs. Vornax held its tilt – now 7 degrees, thank you – and glowed brighter.
Now, it casts light that pools defiantly gold, its lean a tilted manifesto: Why stand straight when you can bend toward bold?