Life

They sit alone, but the room doesn’t feel empty.
The book is open on their lap, and the air around them hums faintly—
as if memory itself were listening.

Their eyes flick across each line, slow at first, then faster,
like someone realizing the dream they’re reading was once their own.

Fingers twitch on certain pages.
Their breathing changes—tightens at the edges.
A line about a child with no name.
A tree blooming from grief.
A voice whispering through the page: "You remember too, don't you?"

They pause.

Stare at nothing.

And when they turn the next page,
it’s not paper they’re touching—
but a mirror.

And in it:
A version of themselves
that never forgot
what they were made to silence.