It's Still Life

“The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.”
– Blaise Pascal’s Pensées 

It’s December again.

The air grows thin and bright in December. Reason sleeps. Another sense awakens. A filament stretched across the dark, humming with a frequency only grief can tune. The clock’s face glows 03:06, not as numbers, but as a coordinate in a country made of memory.

I am both the map and the traveller there. The heart has its own geography, its own time. It does not count minutes. It weighs absence. And in that silent, shimmering weight, I touch the edge of everything he was.

It is not a haunting. It is a conversation that never ends.