Where Light Forgets

The photograph yellows at its edges, corners curled like hands forgetting what they once held— your face still there, but softer, as if seen through milk glass.

I cannot recall the exact sound of your voice, only the shape it made in rooms, the way it turned a hallway into something warm. Time is not a thief but a translator, converting clarity into something else, something gentler.

The garden grows over itself. Wild roses tangle the fence where you planted careful geometry. I let it be— some beauty lives in ruins, in the spaces between what was meant and what remains.

Light still finds the photographs, but differently now. It doesn't illuminate— it caresses what has already faded, turns forgetting into its own kind of grace.