Visual Storytelling
Welcome to a world where images whisper,
and stories bloom quietly between the lines.
Whispered Stories
Here begins a collection of quiet tale,
where teapots speak without words,
scarecrows dream in stillness,
and acorns wonder under autumn skies.
These stories aren’t loud.
They wait.
They listen.
And sometimes, they change the way you see the world.
The Last Drop
At the end of the day,
she stepped out of the noise and fatigue of the city
and opened the door to a quiet little café.
Dim lights, the scent of coffee,
and a gentle melody floating through the air
embraced her solitude.
A quiet corner,
an old wooden table,
and a window misted with rain.
A warm, familiar smile, wordless,
set a cup of coffee before her.
Everything slowed.
Time passed.
The coffee faded,
and her weariness was quietly left behind.
Without turning back,
without a second glance,
she rose
and left…
But the cup
was not empty.
At the bottom,
a single drop remained
gazing upward with dim-lit eyes,
a hand reaching for the rim
its final salvation.
“I am the last drop of your coffee.
Why did you leave me untouched?
Where you saw the end,
I had just begun.
I reached out to you
with hope
but my feet are stranded
in the darkness of solitude.
How did I lose myself,
in the light of day,
within the shadows
of a cup?”
.
The song, The doll, The Self Once
Left Behind
The last breath of twilight hung in the sky.
I lay across my bed, eyes fixed on the fading heavens.
Even the day seemed tired, its light dim and restless, like me.
The window was open.
The hush of the street drifted in like an old acquaintance,
but it wasn’t the only guest.
From the corner, the radio crackled, gently spilling a melody into the room.
The song stirred something.
Memories of myself,
not the self I carry now, but the small, radiant version I used to be.
The child with dreams too large for her little hands.
The girl who once believed in flight,
before her wings were clipped quietly, without warning.
I thought of my old doll.
How carelessly I had left her behind,
not knowing that maybe, just maybe,
a piece of me had stayed there with her.
“Say my name
In the darkness, it’s not the same
So come and kiss me
Before the sun goes down…
— Candlelight by Jack Savoretti
The Silent Sentinel
The sun rose, without question, without hesitation.
And he was there, as always
a sentence without end, a punishment made permanent
in a home built from the repetition of days,
walled by silent rows of corn
that grew taller with each passing moment.
His clothes, faded and frayed,
held the dust of a time long gone
ghosts of someone he used to be
clinging to fabric worn thin by memory.
To begin the day,
he needed only to lift his head
to cast a clear-eyed glance
at what is,
and what will never be.
He knew well the distance between dream and reality
perhaps nothingness, perhaps absence,
perhaps a name stripped of meaning.
But tell me
what fear does the crucified have of storms?
He smiled
through the ruthless lashings of the wind.
And oh, how bitter
the mouths of the small-minded,
who dared call him mad.
Sometimes,
to stand with open arms
requires a courage
only scarecrows know.
The Story of a Teapot Filled with Tea
It was morning, and as on every other day, the same tired hands filled the teapot with tea and water and placed it atop the kettle, where it would steep in the warmth of the rising steam.
But that day was different.
The teapot no longer wished to pour all of itself into an empty cup.
So, it said goodbye to its old companion, the kettle, tucked its handle beneath its heavy, tea-filled belly, and with effort, lifted itself off the kettle, taking with it the weight of repetition it had carried for so long.
Now free from the kettle, the teapot stood on the counter. Behind it: the stove. In front of it: the window.
In that moment, it wasn’t standing still, nor was it fully in motion. It was suspended in that fleeting space between staying and going.
The morning light filtered through the window, but it was still pale and cold, like a deep breath just before waking.
The kitchen window opened to a lush, green yard.
The teapot had reached the window, but had not yet passed through.
This was not hesitation, but perhaps a moment of quiet reflection.
Like someone pressing their hand against a fogged-up pane of glass, without wiping it clean.
On the other side of the window was another world.
Not a world of fantasy or magic
But one that was damp, unkempt, and silent… much like the teapot’s own heart.
The teapot stepped outside and entered this other world.
It moved slowly through leaves still wet with the night’s rain, among tall grasses and muddy patches.
In every corner, the flutter of weary wings and the hushed stir of insects could be seen.
The teapot pressed forward, steam rising from its spout, and like a wandering street-seller, it called out:
“Take a sip of me, and forget your weariness…!”
The sun had risen high into the sky, and those in the garden, weary of its harsh heat, hurried toward it.
But…
Its boiling voice, familiar to itself, was harsh to others.
The tea was hot, and there was no joy in it.
No one came again.
The teapot, tired and alone, settled in a quiet corner of the garden.
Time passed.
Its tea, like the thrill of freedom, had cooled.
And it knew well: cold tea, too, holds no delight
No cure for exhaustion.
Until it saw a flower
Its lips cracked with thirst.
Softly, the teapot said,
“I cannot ease your weariness, but if you sip a little from me, you may survive.”
The flower, with joy, leaned its wilting body toward the teapot and drank a drop.
The tea was gone.
And once again, the teapot feared being alone.
It turned its gaze to the sky, day and night, longing for rain.
And from then on, with every rainfall,
the teapot filled itself anew, so that the flower’s thirsty lips might return to drink.
And so, in a quiet garden corner, a love story began.
Among the branches and leaves of a blooming rose bush,
the little teapot rested, cradled in its arms.
Dust-Covered — or Forgotten
The train of life moved onward — or perhaps, away.
A cabin cloaked in dust, carrying a single, silent soul
toward a destination unnamed.
Quieter than a shadow,
or a breath fading on cold glass,
he waited —
for a hand,
to draw a smile upon his face.
Roots Without Wings
Not every drop needs to fall , some are held, gently, in the silence of longing.
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The sky was no longer calm.
A knot of sorrow hung in its throat,
sometimes it fell as storm,
sometimes as rain,
quietly weeping upon the earth.
The earth, estranged from the sun’s warmth,
sighed a breathless sigh,
breathing cold in silent retreat.
Autumn had arrived uninvited,
stepping softly onto the body of the forest.
Tree after tree surrendered,
laying its limbs into the chill of the season’s hand.
But not far off,
a young tree still carried the scent of sunlight in its heart.
Fearful of being stripped bare,
it pulled its roots from the ground,
dreaming of departure,
but departure requires wings.
And it had none.
Only roots.
Still, it fought,
for its leaves,
for presence,
for life.
But the leaves,
indifferent to the trunk’s plea,
let go,
and drifted into the arms of the wind.
It remained,
with hands emptied of hope
and eyes that wept the rain
long before the clouds arrived.
The sky,
only a witness.
And so,
a bitter truth:
Thousands of bare trees,
with tearful eyes,
listened to the lullaby of wind
and, in silence,
fell asleep.
The Conversation Of Two Acorns
Upon the crest of a wide green hill,
a single ancient oak stood,
weathered, silent,
its gnarled branches cradling
a thousand leaves and countless lives.
Upon one of its branches, two acorns had grown side by side;
neighbor, wall to wall, each with a window facing a different world.
One morning,
before the sun had fully opened its eyes,
they began to argue.
One dreamed of wind and wings,
of plunging into soil
to find something new,
even at the cost of falling.
The other longed for stillness,
for the lullabies sung by the leaves,
for the soft hum
of being rooted, untouched.
“Freedom,” said the first, “is worth the fall.”
“Safety,” replied the other, “is worth the silence.”
Each called the other foolish.
Neither knew which madness would be greater,
to leap, or to linger.
And the old oak,
with eyes heavy from centuries,
watched in tearful quiet.
It had heard this quarrel before.
It knew that time, with its merciless cane, arrives uninvited,
and neither the yearning to fall, nor the comfort of clinging,
will be spared.
Both would meet the soil, without choice, without delay.
And spring?
A new beginning, perhaps…
But at what cost?
Perhaps a vanishing.
Perhaps a silent death,
in autumn’s forgetfulness.
“Perhaps no choice can truly save us ,
we are merely the story of steps we once took in silence.”
The Old Man and the Pond
It was a morning born of the mountains
and a cabin of stone and timber tucked in their arms.
The old man opened the low wooden door gently but firmly,
as if each morning he pulled a part of himself from the home’s quiet frame.
He stepped outside, straightening his back into the breath of the wild,
and shrugged off the heaviness of night like a damp blanket from his shoulders.
He set off.
In one hand, his fishing rod—worn and simple, but faithful still.
In the other, a rusty pail
shaped by time until even memory forgot its original form
and slung across his shoulder, an old hunting rifle, silent as a companion of many years.
He walked to the same familiar place:
a hidden pond nestled among tall pine trees,
where silence was the keeper of time, and water whispered the only words.
The old man had no company.
He reached the pond’s edge,
where the still mirror of water had long welcomed his reflection without question.
He sat—slowly, deliberately
needing no words,
with only a pipe resting quietly on his lips, glowing softly.
In that damp, cold solitude,
he cast his line.
In answer to an hour of silence,
the rod began to dance
perhaps the only dancer
that trembles without music in the depths of stillness.
The old man rose with surprising agility;
his feet knew the ground well.
With practiced strength, he pulled the line—
and the pond’s fish, trembling like a bird,
took flight into the sky.
But the silence
it did not break with the leap of the fish.
It broke with something else.
Not far behind him,
a black bear straightened its back
and locked eyes with the old man in soundless challenge.
The fish fell back to the pond.
And the rifle
that quiet companion
found its way into the old man’s hands.
A gunshot tore the air.
Birds screamed without sound
as they slashed the sky in their panic.
The pond reclaimed its fish.
And the pipe, once again, glowed softly between the old man’s lips.
Unhurried,
with a back bent but unbroken,
the old man walked home.
Maybe life is just this, departure, return, and a silence that speaks of all that once was.”
“Some stories find their way not through plot, but through quiet presence.”
The Final Stop
The sun had an appointment elsewhere.
It cradled its light and drifted away, moment by moment.
The sky—like the forest beneath—grew cold in the sun’s quiet retreat,
and so, it wrapped itself in a cloak of orange and crimson to bear the solitude.
Her breath was lost among the cries of leaves,
shattering beneath hurried footsteps.
She walked quickly, hoping not to lose herself in the dark.
But this chill, this silence, was not without end.
She stopped—
and for a moment, stood still.
There it was: a small station, hidden among ancient trees.
A dim little cabin—
a place for reflection,
or perhaps, the beginning of another journey.
She stood beside the wooden bench,
the one that had waited along the rails in quiet patience.
Perhaps there was no time left for thinking.
That great iron horse,
roaring through its own smoke and dust,
was charging ever closer—second by second.
With legs tired from endless steps,
and a fist clenched tight around the warmth of memories she once held,
she stepped aboard.
The destination… was only an excuse.
She was weary from the road,
and drifted into sleep.
Sometimes, there is no place for choice—
you’ve already been chosen.
The Damp Morning
It all began on a cold, damp morning.
At the far end of the wooden pier, a man sat—
not young, not old,
but worn down by something deeper than time.
His back to the sea,
his face turned toward silence.
His shirt hung loose and tired.
His hands, carved by years,
whispered stories no one heard anymore.
Wrinkled, trembling, worn—
he tightened the knots in his fishing net with tears.
The cabin before him had long kept its window shut—
sealed and heavy, like hope.
In one world, children waited for a piece of bread.
In another, fish swam in circles,
awaiting deception, awaiting death.
He was both.
The giver and the taker.
A gentle soul on land,
turned cold and cruel in water.
Not wicked—just… transformed.
Like the sea.
Like all who change to survive.
The Day She Was No Longer Beside Me
As on every Monday, I opened the window to let in some fresh air. I sat behind my desk and asked the receptionist to send in the first patient.
They came, one after another, and left.
But she didn’t come.
I was waiting for her.
Yes, I admired her beauty—but not with a man’s gaze. With concern. With the eyes of a doctor who cares deeply.
This was the third Monday her absence was felt.
So I decided to check on her myself.
Her phone was off.
That was enough to set my feet in motion toward her home.
I hesitated… but maybe she needed help. So I went.
She lived in an old apartment in an aging neighborhood.
When I reached her door, the dust on the handle showed it hadn’t been touched in days.
I rang the bell. No answer—just silence.
Until an elderly woman approached, a bittersweet smile on her lips.
She looked at me and said:
“She meant to send this letter to you… but she said she would wait—until you came for it yourself.”
In her wrinkled hands rested a letter—one never sent, patiently waiting for me.
I walked slowly through the street, the letter in hand.
On a forgotten bench in a quiet alley, I sat and opened it.
**“Remember me with my final words,
as I sat on that green leather couch in your office…
Let me tell you about that last day—
the day I ran away from the noise and crowds of life.
I turned the key in the lock, and the door opened.
The house embraced me.
The windows were shut—
but I didn’t want them open.
The air was stale, but it smelled like me.
Like memories that belonged to no one else.
There was nothing left in that place that wasn’t mine.
I stepped into the shower.
Closed my eyes, letting the water swallow me in its stillness.
It was just me now.
No dust from anyone else’s presence.
I dropped myself onto the couch.
The black screen of the TV stared at me—
silent, unlit, cold.
And in that silence,
her sobs broke through.
I turned to the corner of the room.
A little girl, her eyes brimming with tears,
her brows knotted to hide her fear—
though I could see it clearly.
That small, lonely creature…
She wasn’t a stranger.
She was the angel who had lived within me through so many days.
But now…
This time, I remembered you.
And so, I didn’t ignore her.
I asked why she cried.
She didn’t answer.
She only slapped me, hard—
and vanished.
Now, she was the one who ignored me.
And her place was left forever empty in my heart.
A moment stripped of thought.
The briefest love story—
with the child I used to be.
Tears filled the eyes of a grown-up,
longing for the version of herself
that had gone missing.
But then…
She came back.
With her sweet smile.
I held her tight.
So I wouldn’t forget—
no glitter of adulthood
should ever make me forget
the purity of a child’s soul.
And now…
I want to show her the world.”**
The letter ended.
I was happy for her.
And for myself… I still don’t know.
Near a mountaintop that touched the sky, above the clouds, nestled in a green clearing, stood an old cottage — a haven for those unafraid of heights.
Its wooden door, worn and groaning, was the only sound the house knew.
Behind it rested a dusty, small room —
A room compact yet complete, holding all that life could ask for:
a bed, an extinguished fireplace, a modest corner for cooking, and an old wooden table with its aging chairs.
All of them dwelled together in silence and peace.
Upon that table sat two cracked, empty plates — and only one fork.
Amid all that stillness, a heart was quietly beating:
A lone fork, its cold, rusted body seemingly embracing itself.
Slightly bent by time, it slowly opened its eyes.
Close to the table, a small window let the sunlight pour over its frame.
It felt the warmth on its metallic skin —
but the sun had an embrace as vast as the earth,
and in that embrace, all had a place.
This warmth was something else —
different from the heat of a hand meant only for him.
So he pulled himself back and stood in the shadows.
He understood life — and loneliness.
Perhaps this cottage, hidden among the mountains, would welcome no more travelers.
He was in love with all that was no longer there.
And in that shadow, a bitter smile touched his lips —
a smile that could see, could feel,
yet had chosen to remain, between dream and reality, in his quietude.
This was a maturity forged in steel…
And his hope, like a small light behind that same little window,
remained quietly lit —
waiting, perhaps, for the warm hands meant for him
to one day find their way to this hidden home.
A Maturity Forged in Steel
A Love as Warm as a hearth
On the slope of a tall mountain, amidst thick trees dressed in autumn’s colors — a hearth glowed.
A small, cozy cabin stood there, home to an old woman, and the hearth was her companion.
Even on the coldest days of the year, thanks to her wrinkled, trembling hands and her sharp-bladed axe, the hearth was full, and the home stayed warm.
One late autumn day, a deep longing filled the old woman’s heart — the voices had faded, and even the burning hearth remained silent.
Her ears were heavy with silence. So, in hope of hearing a sound,
she placed a hand on her knee, straightened her bent back slightly, and stepped outside.
But the forest was quieter than the cabin. Leaves fell in silence, and the wind whispered gently through the branches — as if all things were asleep.
She walked, not knowing where.
Cold crept into her legs, and fatigue settled deep in her bones.
The way home was long. Snow began to fall softly.
She smiled, leaned against a tree, and closed her eyes to the lullaby of snow…
The hearth waited.
But the waiting turned endless.
Troubled, it rose from its place; the fire within had consumed all its calm.
Without hesitation, it left the cabin and set out into the woods.
The forest was cold and still, and night drew near.
At last, the hearth opened its mouth and called out,
but the only answer was the soft sound of falling snowflakes.
Its heart burned with hope — the hope of finding the woman who was its warmth.
But how far could it go?
Its wood was running low, and its hope, dimming.
Frost climbed slowly through its iron legs, and each step grew heavier.
Finally, it saw her…
The old woman’s body, pale and still, surrendered to the cold of winter.
But the hearth refused to believe.
It couldn’t — it wouldn’t — accept her loss.
So with all it had left, it burned.
Every last ember in its soul, it offered —
for one more moment of warmth,
for a chance to bring her back.
In a forest frozen and asleep,
there was a single patch of warmth and light, untouched by snow.
But the heat was fading,
and the old woman was still asleep.
A young tree, awakened by the warmth of the hearth’s love, whispered softly:
“Your light is flickering… Let me carry it forward.”
The hearth looked at her closed eyes,
at its iron body now bent and cold,
and at the slender trunk of the tree —
and smiled.
“Perhaps this is where I end,” it said,
“and where your spring begins.”
The little tree replied:
“Thousands of trees lie in slumber,
but I alone am awake.
Let me burn in your fire —
so I may rise, like a free cloud.”
And without hesitation,
the tree leapt into the flame.
A hearth that had fallen in love,
and a tree that longed for love.
The blackness of night was consumed by the hearth’s warmth.
And morning came.
Smoke rose gently into the sky —
the place where wishes go.
A half-living hearth, buried in ash,
and a trembling, weary hand that touched its side…
with a fading whisper:
“My heart heard yours.”
She decided to rekindle her bond with the sun.
She went to a place free of all presence—
a place where even the wind dared not pass.
The sea lay bare,
not even a wave dressed its body.
Silence stirred,
awaiting a tender romance.
The sun, warm and burning, was waiting for her.
She stole her gaze away from its shining eyes,
and slowly let the silk slip from her skin onto the ground.
Her body was cold and pale—
so far from the touch of the sun’s heated hands,
as if she had lived for years
beneath a stranger’s shadow.
She lay down upon the damp and fevered sands,
with a quiet longing,
waiting for the sun to paint her again with love.
It didn’t take long—
her skin bruised from the sun’s kisses.
A sweet pain settled into her flesh—
one she had chosen herself.
And in that timeless moment, she understood:
the sun had never turned away from her.
It was she who had been standing behind the shadows.
A soft smile touched her lips.
The sun was a lover that needed no words.
Beneath the Sun
The Letter That Was Never Sent
An open window—its sheer curtain no longer able to resist.
It surrendered to the wind, swaying gently, offering no protest.
Like someone who’s stopped fighting, letting the world unfold just as it is.
Rain entered uninvited, with a rhythmic voice, and settled quietly in the silence of dusk—taking a seat on the couch.
Rain never needed permission.
In front of it: a table, scattered white sheets,
And a woman who hadn’t written for some time—yet still held onto her pencil.
She wasn’t waiting for anyone.
She wasn’t writing to anyone.
The pencil slid in her hand,
And she drew in a breath that might have been the beginning of something.
And without knowing why, she began to write:
“You will never read this.
But I write… not to send it,
Only so I don’t forget myself in this loneliness.”
No name came to mind—only a blurred image,
Like the shadow of someone who once stood behind a lit window.
She didn’t know him.
And yet this stranger had become closer than any familiar face.
Sometimes, the mind gives shape to nameless wounds—
A face, a form—anything to calm what trembles within.
And so she kept writing:
“You will never read this. But still, I write.
Because somewhere between my fingertips and the silence in my chest,
You are still breathing.”
No name. Only a fading trace,
Like the echo of a glance that never quite made it into memory.
She recalled:
“I don’t know why I heard your footsteps again today—
Footsteps I’ve never really heard.
Maybe it’s because tonight’s silence sounds more like you than ever before.
I wish your steps were real—
Not just an echo in my mind.”
She paused, turned the pencil, and continued:
“My mother used to say:
Everyone needs someone to write to—
Even if no reply ever comes…”
And now, this “you” had become the one who had never been—
And yet all her unsaid words seemed meant for him.
A stranger built by her mind—
Or a real one, saved by her imagination.
She paused again and added:
“I wish you had a name I could call—
Even if just in the quiet of my own mind.
But you are only a voiceless presence:
Tucked in the folds of a curtain,
In the drops of rain,
In the silence that lives between my words.”
She reached for her now-cold tea.
Got up, without glancing at the presence that might have been in the room.
Stepped out and made herself a new cup of hot tea.
She sipped slowly, returned—
Not hurried, not melancholic,
Just with that quiet of people who no longer ask “why”
Only “what happened?”
And she continued:
“Maybe your presence is just a way to escape those who stayed,
Yet never remained.
I don’t know where it began—
Maybe with a sentence.
Maybe with a glance on the street.
Maybe with a loss I didn’t realize I still carried.
Maybe with a little girl still waiting for someone to call her name out loud.”
She kept writing.
Not out of longing—
But from a kind of rootless ache that had no name.
With every word, she grew neither closer nor farther—
Just peeled away another layer of herself.
Like healing hidden in writing,
Even when no healing exists.
No memory formed in her mind.
Only a muted feeling—like the sound of a piano
from the next room.
But it wasn’t real.
Yet the mind doesn’t care—
It doesn’t ask whether a sound comes from a neighboring room
Or the far memory of childhood.
She wrote, drank her tea in silence,
and sometimes looked out at a sky that was neither bright nor dark—
just suspended between two silences.
And her final line became the ending:
“Sometimes, the thought of someone
Leaves behind the trace of departure—
Even before they ever arrive.”
In that nameless, timeless moment,
A voice echoed in her mind—
Or maybe it was only her own:
“It was me, just for a moment—
But you weren’t ready.
Or maybe it wasn’t me at all.
Maybe you only imagined someone had come.”
And with that imagined voice, the rain stopped.
Its presence faded from the room along with its sound.
And for the first time,
She realized perhaps it had never been rain—
Just a voice within her,
Longing for the outside to answer.
She took a deep breath,
Put down the pencil,
Closed the window.
No sadness. No peace.
Only acceptance—
Like a dry leaf that knows which branch it fell from
But no longer asks why.
And on the final sheet, she wrote:
“You were like a wind
that left the room
before ever entering it.”
Then, she turned off the light.
He Wasn’t Even a Fisherman
With a mind tangled in thoughts, he picked up his fishing rod and headed toward his old boat.
He tossed the rod in—not with excitement, but with a flicker of anger.
The clatter of wood against the boat’s body, followed by a quiet sigh, revealed it all:
Even the boat seemed weary of the man.
The boat was grounded, but he pushed it into the water with the strength of his legs.
He climbed in and began to row—
until he reached the deepest part of the lake.
There, he drew a long breath, let the oars fall beside him,
took the rod in his hands, and spun it high into the air—
perhaps hoping his thoughts might hook onto it too—
and cast it into the still water.
But he wasn’t a fisherman.
So there was no bait.
Perhaps he had come only to commit a silent kind of murder—
to drown his thoughts and feelings in the quiet depths of the lake.
Hours passed.
Night fell.
The fish, down below, mocked him in whispers,
calling him a fool in their silent language,
unaware that all it took was a single slip of the line to change a fate.
Among them, however, was one fish who had seen the sorrow etched on the man’s face.
It hadn’t listened with ears but with its heart—
had felt the man’s deep, slow breathing and sensed a question hanging in the stillness:
What if there’s not even bait left for him to offer?
What if there’s no more catch left to hope for?
So the fish, free in the water, made its choice.
It swam up and bit the bare hook,
offering itself willingly to the line without bait, without resistance.
What a useless act of mercy…
The man wasn’t even a fisherman.
The tension of the line stirred him from his thoughts.
He looked at the catch—
and smiled at the foolishness of the fish.
What a shame.
He wasn’t even a fisherman.
Assuming the gesture to be a needless kindness,
he removed the fish from the hook
and gently tossed it back into the lake.
Between sky and water,
the fish cast one last glance at the man.
It drew in a breath—sharp, aching.
For a brief moment, it hesitated—
What had I done?
With a wound born of unreturned compassion,
it sank once more into the lake’s embrace.
The man felt calm now.
Not only had he cast his thoughts into the depths—
but a wounded fish, lips red with pain, had followed them down.
He returned to shore.
The boat ran aground.
And the fish—
released from the lake’s arms—
rose once more to the surface
and, bathed in moonlight,
fell asleep.
There may come a storm—
and I may find myself in its heart.
Its ruthless blows,
bruising my skin,
might wake me.
Perhaps I will accept,
perhaps I will let go of the impossible dreams—
the ones meant to remain dreams,
and nothing more.
Or the storm may strip me of all I hold—
even my clothes.
But fear?
Fear is the final defeat.
Perhaps one day,
I will peel myself away from my own body—
from that bare, lonely body.
And in quiet,
light and free,
I will fall asleep in the sky.
And if a tomorrow comes,
I’ll open my eyes—
perhaps the wind has carried me
to where I was always meant to be.
Autumn
In a village whose walls still breathed the scent of centuries past,
an old man lived with his gray cat.
Not entirely alone—
for memories kept him company,
breathing softly in every corner of the cottage.
On one of the final days of August,
he woke with a quiet joy.
Straightening his bent back,
as if to weave yet another sweet remembrance out of the day.
He called for the cat, but silence answered.
With cautious steps he descended the stairs
and found the creature by the window.
He drew a deep breath and whispered:
“You feel her presence too, don’t you?”
He tidied the house, brewed two cups of tea,
and waited on the balcony—
for a guest his heart already knew was on her way.
From the crest of the hill,
a woman approached with a worn suitcase.
Her footsteps made no sound in the sleeping alleys,
as though the wind itself carried her.
Her long orange hair swayed with the breeze,
and her pale face, betraying the chill within,
blushed faintly in the old man’s presence.
He welcomed her warmly and invited her to tea.
Moments passed in fragile delight,
until farewell could no longer be delayed.
The old man, with quiet sorrow, said:
“Perhaps the trees will fall asleep at your coming,
but each year on this day I awaken in your name.
And though your suitcase is always empty…
is repetition the very meaning of life? I do not know.
Will there be another chance for us to meet—
between hope and silence?”
The woman smiled with a trace of bitterness:
“My suitcase is empty of life,
yet it carries no ending.
Perhaps existence itself is nothing but this unknowing.
Who can say?
Sometimes not knowing is an embrace of peace
that tomorrow cannot give.
Let the wind find its own path.”
The gray cat stretched and yawned,
as if it had already lived through this meeting a thousand times.
The woman glanced at the animal and whispered:
“Perhaps one day you will meet me again—
with a different face.”
Then she rose and left the house without a sound.
No one in the village knew when she had arrived
nor when she departed.
Perhaps only the trees—
their leaves trembling before sinking into sleep—
had witnessed her passing.
🍂The Old Man and His Wooden Doll🍂
At the end of a not-so-quiet alley, there was a small shop.
The little bell by the door had been silent for a long time—
not because it had lost its sound,
but because no hand had opened the door,
no foot had stepped inside to become its guest.
The shop belonged to an old man, worn thin by the passing years.
With trembling but stubborn hands, he worked to shape the finest wooden dolls.
His eyes could no longer see the details clearly,
yet with the help of thick glasses pressing heavily on the bridge of his nose,
he still tried to place the colors in the right spot.
But in a world so full of light and noise,
would any child still wish for a wooden doll?
Perhaps this was the thought that sometimes crossed the minds of passersby.
Had the old man lost himself in his dust-covered world?
Or was he nothing more than a silent madman?
It wasn’t only the passersby who seemed to ask this.
The same question lingered in the empty stares
of the dolls sitting on the dusty shelves.
How bitter, that his tired hands were called mad
even by the very creatures he had made.
And among those shelves, beneath layers of dust,
stood one doll with an eager smile,
holding a bright red heart in its hands—
as if a fragment of the old man’s hopeful soul
had been left inside it.
But what a pity.
No hand ever reached for it.
No eyes ever stopped to look.
And the bell by the door…
remained silent.
Time is not always a remedy;
at times it only deepens the wound,
embedding itself so deeply within your being
that it breathes beside you for a lifetime.
There are sorrows that make their home in the heart—
sorrows beyond the reach of language,
where words can only betray their depth.
And I, with the dust of time upon me,
still carry within my soul
secrets so hidden that even I myself
can find no path to them.
Have you ever heard the whispers of trees?
Or the roars that are not screams, and yet—the very peak of a voice?
At the far end of a modest garden, a pumpkin rested beside a tall pine.
They had long been companions; or perhaps, companionship had been the best choice left to them.
From the day the pumpkin first opened its eyes, it had always found shelter in the pine’s shade—protection against the harsh gaze of the sun. And the pine, in return, had found a sweet voice to share its silence with. The pumpkin spoke of the commotion of the earth, and the pine replied with the stillness of the sky.
One autumn day, the pumpkin, uneasy, began to speak.
It recounted whispers of things it was too young to have witnessed.
But the pine, as always, kept its gaze fixed on the heavens, paying no mind to the earth. To it, such tales were nothing but autumn’s deceit—envy born from the naked trees.
And so the pine urged the pumpkin to remain calm.
But the pumpkin trembled with fear. It pleaded with the pine to pull up its roots and leave the garden together.
Yet the pine owed its towering stature to the very roots sunk deep into the soil. To abandon that safe ground was a terror it could not endure.
Instead, it entwined its strong roots gently with those of the pumpkin, held it close, and whispered:
“Stay by my side… do not be afraid.”
On a damp morning, a man with long legs and heavy boots walked to the end of the garden.
The firm, deliberate weight of his steps betrayed the certainty of his choice.
His coarse, powerful hands circled the pumpkin, and with all his strength, he tore it from the earth.
The last effort and all the strength of the pine’s tangled roots, within only a few moments, collapsed into a single tear from the pumpkin’s eye.
The man, with a cold gaze yet a smile of grim satisfaction, carried the pumpkin away.
The pine lowered its eyes to the ground, to the man’s departing steps. It sighed from the depths of its being—or perhaps let out a silent scream—and closed its eyes.
That autumn passed colder than any before, wrapped in the pine’s silence.
Until one quiet morning, after a snowy night.
The man returned, this time with an axe in hand.
He laid it on the ground, then with those same coarse hands, caressed the pine’s trunk.
That same bitter smile of satisfaction returned to his lips.
Then, with a soft swing of his hand, he lifted the axe into the air and struck the trunk.
The proud pine, ever gazing at the sky, surrendered its body to the axe’s unfeeling blows.
In the count of seconds, awaiting the final strike, it remembered the pumpkin’s eyes…
and at last, it fell to the earth.
In the cold of winter, in the heavy sleep of the garden,
a quiet love was forgotten.
The wind blew; the tree trembled in its embrace.
The rain kissed its bare skin.
The leaf—faded and weary—lit its final cigarette and, with a short breath, looked at the tree one last time.
How swiftly that springtime acquaintance had passed, how cold that summer’s warmth had turned.
And now—the tree, indifferent, had forgotten all that once was, and in the arms of the wind had fallen into a memoryless sleep.
Perhaps love is but two sides of the same coin:
as long as the life of a leaf—
yet brief, a season,
and to the tree that sleeps indifferent… worthless.
Sometimes, presence alone is enough…
Like a painter who sketches without passion,
just to remember who they are.
Or a writer who writes,
so they won’t forget what lives within.
But you—
sometimes all you need is to be there,
even as a faint light —
in the heart of someone
whose only reason to stay
might be your smile.
🕯️ The Silent Sentinel
Don’t be afraid of me.
Don’t fear the coldness of my hands.
I’ve emptied my heart of every storm,
and saved an embrace of calm — just for you.
My clothes are dusted with time,
yet I wear my finest tonight.
A small candle still flickers in my head,
waiting for your return.
Look —
see how restless I am for you.
Take this crucified one
into your arms.
I feel as if I’ve become nothing—
empty of all that once was me.
A wandering soul,
drifting within myself,
among all that is not,
in search of a single fragment of who I am.
Perhaps if I find it,
I will awaken once more—
and live again.
Sometimes we disappear within ourselves —
not to end,
but to begin again.
Yet for a hollow pumpkin,
where does the lost self hide its light?
A Man, a Street, and a Scent
There was a man,
a street,
and a scent that sank deep into his soul.
Every afternoon, he left his office — drawn by a longing
whose destination he did not know.
The same street.
The same lingering fragrance.
But never a sign of the woman.
A woman.
A glance.
A smile — and a presence
that had remained vivid in his heart.
That damp, cold evening,
he stepped out once again.
He had given up hope of seeing her.
He put on his hat, lifted the collar of his coat —
as if the chill were only an excuse
to hide himself within his clothes.
Without knowing why,
his steps found their way back to the same street.
Through the rain,
a familiar scent drifted by.
He stopped — lifted his head —
and there she was:
slender legs, black heels,
and the same, disarming smile.
“Would you mind moving aside a little?” she asked.
He looked into her eyes —
those eyes that reached all the way into his being —
and realized he was standing in front of a doorway.
He stepped back.
The key trembled between her fingers —
a tremor that might have come from her heart.
She unlocked the door, paused in the doorway,
and looked back at him.
“I’ve seen you pass by my window so many times,” she said softly.
“You’re not a stranger…
Perhaps you’d like to come in for a coffee —
until the rain stops.”
He hesitated for a heartbeat.
She lowered
her gaze,
as though startled by her own words.
Before he could reply,
her smile faded;
she withdrew her offer,
and quietly closed the door.
A woman returned to her empty home,
not knowing what she was ashamed of —
the invitation,
or her retreat from it.
He stood there,
listening to nothing but the rain.
So much waiting,
ending in silence.
A window lit up;
a graceful shadow moved behind the glass —
a woman who might have been in his arms.
A bitter smile touched his lips,
uncertain whether it was the rain that wet his face,
or his own pride.
Then he turned,
and walked home.
It was night—
and a crow, as dark as the night itself, sat alone in the depths of the forest.
The air had grown cold; perhaps that was why no creature but the crow lingered outside its nest.
Not that he lacked a home, no—
a quiet, beautiful wish had settled in his heart.
He had spent an entire year searching for a string of tiny lights,
and at last had found one in the yard of a human house.
He wasn’t a thief;
perhaps he had only borrowed it for a single night.
Deep in the forest stood a fir tree that had stolen the crow’s gaze.
What gift could be more fitting than a shimmering garland of lights,
draped gently over its branches?
The crow perched on a limb, folded his wings,
and closed his eyes to make a wish.
He remembered all that he was—
his night-black feathers, his rough wings,
and the simple truth that no eye had ever found him beautiful.
A tear slipped onto the soil below.
A heavy longing pressed against his heart.
He wished—
that beyond all the hands that had never touched him with kindness,
perhaps the gentle hand of an old man
with a white beard and a red coat
might return to him a warmth he had never known.
But only the cold breath of the wind answered him—
only its hollow howl.
He sighed.
Even the glow of those tiny lights upon the graceful tree
could not soften his ugliness.
Cold seeped into his bones.
He had no desire to open his eyes—
tired,
resigned to a fate he believed had long been written.
Cold…
cold as a truth from which there is no escape.
His body was losing its warmth
when a rough, weathered hand lifted him from the branch
and gathered him into its arms.
The crow kept his eyes shut,
but he already knew—
this was not the old man he had imagined.
Though his wings remained tightly folded,
he felt as if he were flying.
He opened his eyes.
An old woman dressed in black,
plain and not at all beautiful—much like himself—
held him close.
There was no sleigh,
only a tired broom carrying her through the sky
with all the strength it had left.
A small smile curved the crow’s beak.
The old woman returned it—
a smile not beautiful at all,
yet warm enough to kindle a spark of love
in the crow’s lonely heart.
Perhaps every darkness carries its own hidden color.
Perhaps that night—
a night no one dared to challenge but the crow—
held a quiet love, waiting patiently
at the very end of hope.
Thank you for walking through these quiet tales.
Some were made of tea,
some of leaves,
and some of longing.
If even one of them stayed with you,
then none of them were truly silent.