Осінь

Autumn reminds us once again that warmth is not measured in degrees, but in touch. The air smells of leaves and fatigue, the light outside the windows flickers - it no longer warms, but seems to try. Somewhere inside, sadness settles, soft as dust on old toys, and just as stubborn. It's as if someone broke the glass between “was” and “is,” and now you have to pick up the pieces with your bare hands, trying not to cut your memories.

Silence becomes a new language when words can no longer fix anything. And all that remains is to dance with autumn - a little uncertainly, a little hopefully, that the fog will dissipate and the hands that warm us today will not disappear with the last sun.