And here I remain, hunched,
leaning against the wall.
Listening to the sounds inside my mind.
I do not move — like stone.
I don’t know.
Or maybe I do.
Was I killed?
Or did I die on my own?
Time doesn’t pass here.
It breathes — slowly,
as if waiting for something from me.
Sometimes I think I hear footsteps,
or a murmur,
as if the world still remembers my name,
but too softly for me to understand.
There’s a sound on the other side —
not a voice,
not wind,
something between a chord and a sigh.
I know it.
It was the music.
The one that played before everything went silent.
It comes, then hides again.
As if it too had died,
but had nowhere left to go.
And I stay.
Trapped in this interval,
between the wall and the sound,
between what I was and what remains.
Only this keeps me:
the memory of what still tries to remember me.
