In the corner of the room
a chair waits,
its wood worn smooth
by years of weight and silence.

A hat leans careless
on its shoulder,
as if someone rose quickly,
promising to return.

The carpet holds shadows—
damp stains of footsteps
that linger longer than voices,
longer than warmth.

The room holds its breath.
Even the walls remember,
scratched with the silence
of what was left behind.