By: Ameer Ali
Nothing left is not emptiness, it is the quiet after survival. The room still breathes, though the echoes have thinned. I stand among small proofs: a cup cooling, dust in sunlight, a clock insisting on seconds. Loss tried to hollow me, yet it failed to finish the job. What remains is stubborn: memory without noise, hope without promise, courage without applause. I move slower, but I move. I choose mornings, even when they arrive pale. I carry less, and that makes space. From the wreckage, I learn how to live lighter, and stay. Here, breathing becomes enough, and becomes peace.
