—a poetic short

The world had ended a thousand times,
not with bombs or fire,
but in the quiet way hope fades.

And yet here he was—
a lone figure sitting on a wooden bench,
where the sea whispered to the shore like a tired lover returning home.

The wind was soft… like it knew his name.
It danced through his long, unkempt hair,
lifting strands as if trying to remind him
he was still alive.

The sun didn’t shout from the sky—
it leaned gently from the East,
painting the air gold,
turning every dust particle into a drifting crystal.
A silent snowfall of light.

Flowers bloomed wildly beside the stone road.
They weren’t perfect.
Some petals torn by wind,
some bent with age—
but they lived without apology.

He didn’t cry.
There were no tears left.
Only numb eyes that watched beauty pass
without reaching out.

Then he saw her—
not in flesh,
but in the dust-light.

A girl with eyes like forgotten songs,
running barefoot in the gold haze,
laughing, spinning—
just like she used to,
or maybe never did.

She waved.
Smiled.

And slowly, she broke into golden glitter.
Like she had become part of the sun itself,
leaving only warmth
and the ache of something that almost stayed.

The wind stilled.

And he whispered,
“You were never mine to keep…
but you were mine to remember.”

The reel would spin again tomorrow.
But for now—
he stayed.
Just a man, on a bench,
with the sea in front of him,
and the ghost of love in the wind.