A photograph without a name, pressed flat as though it had been waiting for decades to breathe again
The glass was cracked, but her eyes still followed whoever dared to open the cabinet
A button, a curl of hair, a slip of paper — fragments that claimed to remember more than we ever could
They said the cabinet was locked, but the faces inside had long since escaped into the town.
From that moment, Don Nicanor noticed, everything began to fall apart.
The world, as he saw it, had become a collage of torn scraps of paper
In his mind, her face was like a portrait haphazardly arranged from scraps of paper.
The rest was a shifting absence.
The rain obeyed her voice, but left her pale as its final gift
The coat remembered her better than we ever could
She left no footprints, only the hush that follows when a song ends
