Evening falls like a long sigh. The silk curtain by the window stirs faintly, like a dream not yet awake. The color of the sky fades, mottled with fragments of old memories — perhaps from a distant season, when someone was still here.
I sit quietly, watching the light drift through each thread of fabric, as fragile as the thoughts scattering in my mind. Sometimes, I imagine that if I were to lift that curtain just a little, I might touch another world — one where time no longer runs, and the things I’ve lost still remain whole.
The curtain doesn’t just hide the light; it keeps the things I haven’t dared to forget. Each passing breeze carries a faint scent — perhaps lavender, perhaps a distant Provence afternoon.
They say when you look long enough at a curtain, you don’t just see the fabric and color — you see yourself, in what’s been concealed.
I touch the edge of the curtain. Soft, cool, and silent.
Perhaps, the curtain is still dreaming.
And I — I am only the one standing outside, listening to the whisper of a dream not yet dissolved.
