The rain taps gently on the windowpane, a soft, rhythmic sound that echoes through the stillness of the room. An old woman sits in a worn armchair, her frail fingers resting lightly on her lap, eyes gazing out into the grey mist beyond the glass. Her breath is shallow, steady, like the fading beat of a quiet drum.
"I remember we laughed," she murmurs, though to no one in particular. "We laughed so much, didn’t we? There were birthdays... picnics in the sun... oh, and music. Always music."
A flicker of something dances across her face—a smile, perhaps—but it vanishes as quickly as it came. Her eyes remain distant, unfocused, watching a world she no longer fully knows.
"There were so many memories... so many... once."
She blinks slowly. The rain keeps falling. Names, faces, voices—all once vivid—are now like shadows behind fogged glass. She reaches for them in her mind, but they slip away before they can take shape.
"I used to hold onto them," she says softly, her voice barely audible. "Private moments... reflections... all passing. And now... they’re gone."
A long pause.
"I think... I’ve forgotten them already. Even the ones yet to happen. Can you forget something before it’s even real?" She chuckles faintly, a sound more sad than amused.
Outside, the rain thickens. Time itself seems to drip down the glass with it.
"I sit here now. Don’t know when I began. Don’t know when I’ll end." Her eyes glisten, but no tears fall. "Oblivious... that’s the word, I think. Yes. Without time. And nothing left to share."
Her head leans against the back of the chair. She is still. The window stays wet with rain. And the world, for her, floats quietly away.
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