There are ghosts that never haunt the dead. They haunt the spaces they left behind. A chair remains empty, yet somehow still remembers a body. A clock keeps swallowing seconds as if time could bury what memory refuses to and in the quiet, we collect the remnants the things we touched, the things we lost, the things we were never brave enough to let go of. We call it longing or we call it healing. Perhaps it is neither. Perhaps we keep digging into old wounds because pain is the last place where what we lost still feels alive. The void you trying to fill in Is the pain you dying to dig in. And maybe absence was never the opposite of presence, it was what remains when something leaves our world but refuses to leave us.