In the Margins of Forgetting

The old library's dust collects in alphabets no one reads— each spine a voice that learned to whisper backwards into dark.

I found your bookmark pressed between pages about stars, a forgotten map to constellations you stopped believing in. The margin notes in your careful hand still ask questions the text never answered.

What becomes of the words we abandon? Do they dissolve like sugar in rain, or do they gather somewhere beneath, a quiet rebellion of unfinished thoughts, waiting for someone to complete them?

This room remembers you the way forgotten things do—not with longing, but with the simple fact of your presence still held in the shape of silence you left behind.