Time falters—
splintered light pressed through rusted blinds—
a room forgetting itself.

His hands—
once steady
now vessels for something hollow,
something slipping through.

"I found a sad little fairy
Beneath the shade of a paper tree.
I know a sad little fairy
Who was blown away by the wind one night."

Her name
a bird trapped in his throat
fluttering against the ribs
half-formed—
half-vanished—

How cruel—
to carry the ache
and not the shadow
that cast it.

Somewhere—
the past is still happening
small hands folding into larger ones,
the hush of stories whispered into the hollow of sleep—
a red kite tangled in the branches—
the scent of almonds and grass.

But memory is a delicate violence
it gives and it takes
it leaves only what can be carried
yellow feathers,
paper trees,
the ghost of a name
pressed into the soft cage of breath.

He smiles—
without knowing why,
without knowing who

the echo—
soft as breath against glass,
fading before it touches

And somewhere—
she is still holding his hand,
leading him home

a yellow feather
caught in the hush of his breath—
weightless—
circling—
never falling.