The chair waits quietly behind the wall, as if someone just left and the moment forgot to move on.

Its edge still holds a trace of warmth— a memory of weight, of something that once belonged here.

Light leans in slowly, without sound, without reason, touching what remains untouched.

Dust floats like time that lingers in the air, and the room does not interrupt it.

Nothing arrives. Nothing leaves. Yet the chair stays behind, as if absence still knows how to stay.