I had a weird dream last night. I was standing in a corridor, lined with portraits of faces I once knew. But one portrait, framed in sunlight and draped in the scent of old dry leaves, stood out. It's a blurry face, yet the emotions it evokes are as clear as day—a warmth, a comfort from a person I can't quite place, perhaps a person from the past? She was wearing a ribbon in her hair, its color still bleeding—a reminder of a past that continues to shape my present. My reflection stares back at me from its framed glass. Why can I not clearly see your face? I approached it cautiously, drawn by an inexplicable pull. As I gazed into it, she seemed to hold a secret I had almost forgotten. A portal to a time long gone. I saw myself—younger, more carefree, with a smile. But I'm not the person in the portrait. It was a woman I had loved and lost. She's smiling, but her eyes were full of sadness. Her familiar presence caressed my cheek. I'm crying. The wind whispered to me her name. That's when I got back into my senses, standing in the corridor—the hallway—a conduit to a past I thought I had buried. I woke up in tears. I thought if I pushed myself to forget you, everything would be fine. But even my dreams won’t let it happen. Perhaps it was a love that I would never truly forget. (to my dead poetry—lamuerte)