The rain drums softly on the tin roof,
each drop a whisper in the night.
I gather chairs, their legs scraping
against the floor—echoes of laughter
that linger still, despite the silence.
In this quiet, I send a prayer,
for those who left, and those who stay.

The room feels larger now, emptier,
as if holding its breath, waiting.
I place each chair in its place,
a ritual of sorts, like setting
pieces of a puzzle, knowing
some will never fit, yet accepting
the beauty in what remains unfinished.