Scent of Shadow

The shadows stretch the minutes, cold threads on the hands.
A scent of stone and linen wraps the room, without sounds.
Time holds its breath, and the wall keeps a whisper.
Fragrance seeps into the wood, remembering closed doors and promises.
A window draws a memory: a voice that returns, a face that remains.
Silence listens to what dares not speak.
The minutes stretch out, as if the scent wished to stay.
The armchairs whisper names and hours that no longer exist.
The room learns to recognize the echo of you.
When the shadow withdraws, only the aroma lingers, never quite gone.
The memory lights up the room, becoming a breathing recollection.
And time, for an instant, pauses just to listen.