the wind blows (6)

He moves through the rooms, his hand grazing the walls as if searching for a hidden memory. Each step seems to carry the weight of countless others, each breath a struggle against the heavy air.

In the kitchen, a pot hangs above the stove, its bottom blackened by years of use. A single plate sits on the counter, chipped but clean. He picks it up and turns it over in his hands, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Then, as if startled by his own sentiment, he sets it down with a clatter.The laughter returns, louder this time. It is not joyous but tinged with something darker, something unfinished.