Time unrolls the paper, a photograph still wet. The drops draw contours that tremble on the image. The present remains suspended between stains and memory. Rain reflections chase the words that never had a voice. They run across the margins, seeking a pronunciation that does not arrive. Only sighs of water tremble upon the glass. If time could speak, it would be in the silence of that frame. The voice that is not there gathers, damply, in the air. And when the photo dries, only a pale whisper of the moment remains.