I remember the last time we gathered. Not the words, not the gestures – only the silence between fork and glass. Our faces had long been erased, our voices glitched into echoes. We sat as if presence were a mistake none dared to name. I no longer know what we were celebrating. Perhaps the end. Perhaps that no one could remember what belonged to whom – the plate, the glass, the grief. We were ghosts of our own choices. Digital silhouettes, summoned by memory itself.