Some rooms forget. But not yours.
It holds the silence, the dust, and the ache.
This is a memory I can’t stop revisiting —
written in the quiet after your absence.

Entering the Silence

Cold, lifeless air greets me
as I step into your room —
once noisy,
once flooded with sunlight
and the trace of your scent.

Now, it smells of damp sorrow.
The medicines you took after your breakfast
lie untouched on the table,
gathering dust like forgotten prayers.

The Empty Bed

Your bed — once warm,
once yours —
now chills my fingertips.
The sheets are stripped.
Blankets gone.
I search for a hint of you
in the folds of the air,
but there is nothing left.

Where Are You?

My footsteps echo.
I wait for your voice —
maybe calling from the bathroom,
a gentle “I’m here.”
But silence is all that meets me.

I catch a glimpse of your handwriting,
an ache settles in my chest —
as if you’re still here,
but nowhere to be found.

The Chair and The Table

I sit in your wheelchair,
rolling back and forth —
No laughter greets me now
like it used to.

Your table,
Once filled with warm food
and a single glass of water,
now stands empty.
And it feels so wrong.
Looked so wrong.
So out of place.

Final Goodbye

Everything’s gone,
Just like you.

This room remembers you.
Just like I do.
And sometimes, I go back to the memory of your last birthday —
where time already knew what I didn’t.

Forever missing you, my Apah.