The toys sit untouched,
their colors dulled by dust.
A teddy bear slumps in the corner,
its stitched smile worn
but still trying to comfort a silence
too heavy to lift.
The bed is neatly made,
blankets pulled tight,
as if the morning routine
might still call them back—
but the air is frozen,
a breath held forever
in a moment that will not come.
Posters cling to the walls,
faces of idols staring
into the emptiness.
Books lie open on the desk,
half-read stories waiting
for hands that will not turn the pages.
The shoes by the door
still bear traces of yesterday's mud,
a trail leading nowhere.
A backpack leans against the wall,
its straps slack,
as if exhausted from holding
dreams now shattered.
Laughter echoes faintly
in the hollow space,
a ghost of what was—
birthday candles, once blown out,
songs sung off-key,
whispers exchanged beneath
the soft cocoon of night.
Now, these rooms are monuments
to lives paused mid-sentence,
their stories unfinished,
their futures erased
in an instant of senseless violence.
The walls carry the weight of memory,
the ache of what will never be:
the first love, the last dance,
the open road stretching endlessly ahead.
Instead, they stand still—
silent, empty,
and unbearably full
of everything left behind.
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