Refraction

The old window holds a thousand lights, each one bent and multiplied—yesterday compressed into a corner where the afternoon forgets its shape.

You trace the warped glass with your finger. The world beyond ripples, thickens, becomes something you almost recognize. This is how memory works: never quite the thing itself, always refracted, always arriving from an angle the eye alone cannot calculate.

Glass remembers everything that's never touched it. The light remembers too— each bend a small forgetting, each fracture a story the surface refuses to tell straight.