As evening slipped into place, the glass pane that I was leaning on, had grown cold. The setting sun baked its last heat into the window pane and bent the light inside the room. Spots of color appeared on the floor like stains, like spills, like mistakes.
The rupture could not be mended – there were no tools, no words that could help. The wounds were ossified relics from an older, gone-away age. They were necessary memories of a forgotten people and a left-behind time.