Time does not heal it simply drags the wound behind us, a white ribbon of memory unspooling through every quiet hour. We walk the shore of what was, barefoot on broken clocks, each tick a small betrayal, each tock a name we still whisper into the wind that never answers. Grief is not a visitor; it moved in, claimed the best room, and hung curtains made of your absence. Yet sometimes, beneath the storm-heavy sky, a single breath catches— sharp, bright, alive— and for that fragile second the ribbon flutters, not undone, but beautiful in its fraying. We carry the hurt because it is the only shape love still has left. And we keep walking anyway. Because forever was never supposed to be whole - only endlessly, achingly, ours.