Lia-di-Luna
Time has a strange way of taking things from us.
Faces become distant. Voices become memories. Places change. Moments become stories we can no longer return to.
And yet, not everything disappears.
Some people remain-not in the way they once existed beside us, but somewhere within the quiet architecture of who we become. A thought, a feeling, a familiar song, a moment that suddenly belongs to another time.
Perhaps memory is its own form of existence.
So this is not a story, nor an attempt to preserve what once was. It is simply a record of what continues to exist after the moment itself has passed.
The thoughts.
The fragments.
The echoes.
The ordinary days in which the past quietly becomes present again.
Because if time is measured by what it takes from us, perhaps memory is measured by what it cannot.