The Glass Hours

Light pours through old bottles on a shelf, amber and blue bleeding into the dust— each one holds a different afternoon, a separate silence that will not return.

I cannot pour them back into the day. The hours have already crystallized, caught between transparency and void, each shadow a clock that stopped keeping time.

Outside, the world insists on moving. But here, in this room made of forgotten things, light bends into the shape of waiting, and I am learning the patience of glass— how to hold absence without breaking.