Hung in Silence

It hangs like a half-formed thought, the green watering can, resting against the wall. The number five is printed on its plastic skin, but it doesn’t count time or seasons.

Maybe it counts the visits that never came, the quiet footsteps, the words whispered into the air. In this place of memory, where the southern sun cuts across the walls like a quiet blade, even objects seem to breathe slowly. 

A gesture left waiting, hung in silence

The metal rusts in silence, the wall fades gently, but that hanging shape remains — like a gesture that still holds meaning.

Someone left it there, perhaps after pouring the last drop over beloved soil. 

Perhaps planning to return. Perhaps not to forget. 

And in the meantime, it stays. Suspended between doing and waiting, between the water that was and the water that will be. Five liters of absence, silent and full of meaning, ready to nourish memory.

Walk by Ludovico Einaudi plays quietly, without asking for attention. The piano moves in small steps, at a slow and measured pace, like someone walking through a familiar place, guided more by memory than by destination. It’s a kind of music that doesn’t distract but stays quietly present — like those silent presences that don’t need to say anything to be felt.

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