# Forgotten Souls I have no title to offer, no name carved in stone, just the whisper of wind through abandoned rooms where I once breathed. They say memory is a river— it flows, it forgets, it moves on. I am the silt it leaves behind, the sediment of all that was, now settling into silence. There are photographs somewhere, faces turned away from the camera, mine among them, blurred, as if I was always departing, always halfway to forgetting. I did not die dramatically. No, I simply ceased to matter, the way a song stops playing when no one is listening, when the room empties and even the echo grows weary. My name was once on lips— warm lips, urgent lips, lips that have long since turned to dust. Now it lives only in the pause between one breath and the next, in the space where a word almost forms and dissolves. I ask nothing now, not resurrection, not vindication, only that you might stumble upon this corner of silence and feel, for a moment, the weight of all that vanishes, the vastness of what is forgotten, and understand— we are all becoming ghosts while still drawing breath.