Remember?

The silence here rings louder than music. The house breathes emptiness, the air smells of clean linen and something irreversible. Everything seems to have frozen in anticipation - a mug on the table, a half-open window, the rustle of footsteps in the next room. Love no longer flares up, but continues - quietly, stubbornly, in the movement of hands, in the habit of seeing things through to the end.

This is a story about tenderness that has outlived itself and remained something greater. About how hard it is to let go, but even harder to forget, when even the light on the walls preserves the outlines of what has been lost. A quiet pain, wrapped in care, where love is not a feeling, but the ultimate form of fidelity.