06/09/2026
The Room That Remembers
A hush settles into the room like dust on old wood—
soft, patient, unmoving.
At its center, the settee breathes in stillness,
its curved back like a quiet spine,
holding the weight of conversations long vanished.
Tufts gather like small constellations,
pressed into fabric that remembers
every absence.
Light spills reluctantly from the wall—
a dim confession,
touching only what it must.
Shadows pool in the corners,
thick and knowing,
as if they have been waiting longer than anything else here.
Behind it, the clock stands tall—
not ticking, not speaking,
but watching—
a keeper of moments no longer counted.
It rises like a relic of time that refuses to leave,
its face hidden in the dim,
its voice swallowed.
The rug below unfurls its quiet geography,
ornate, worn, untraveled—
a map of nowhere,
or perhaps everywhere that has already happened.
Nothing moves.
Nothing dares to.
And yet—
the room feels on the edge of remembering,
as though if you waited just one breath longer,
something unseen
might finally return
to sit.
