Memory Has Soft Hands
Let us walk together through the quiet rain where your grandmother's hands remain the only map to a world that never stopped spinning.
This piece whispers of the way memory holds things with a tender, almost liquid grace, tracing the ridges of time on skin that has given so much and taken little in return. It explores the space between what was seen through windowpanes of glass and moonlight, where loneliness is not an end but a soft vessel for dreams that refuse to fade.
