Empty Room Remembers

A room holds its breath, dust settling like morning snow on the shelf where your voice lived. The window forgets its color— grey becomes the only language here.

I trace the floor's old scars, each one a small argument we lost. The light comes different now, angles itself through the wrong pane, casts shadows where brightness used to be.

Air moves like something ancient through the space your absence fills— not empty, but heavy with what was. The walls breathe slowly, slowly, remembering the shape of your name.

If I hold very still, the silence might confess something. But rooms keep their secrets better than people ever could, better than I ever did.