The wind drifts softly through the corridors of time,

carrying whispers of faces long departed,

each sigh, a name I once called home-

each silence, a place where laughter used to bloom.

I walk among echoes, not of sorrow alone,

but of tender things half- remembered- a smile, a scent a fleeting touch.

How cruelly the kind heart remains,

to cradle what has gone

and still call it beautiful.