The Silence of Wine

No one remembers the last time someone entered that room. The dust barely dares to settle on the table, as if respecting the silence that dwells within. The light that filters through the crack in the window doesn't illuminate, it reveals. And what it reveals is a suspended moment: a nameless bottle and an empty glass.

There is no wine, but there is presence. The bottle stands like a silent witness, a body that has contained memories, toasts, tears, and stifled laughter. Beside it, the glass—delicate, translucent—seems to await a promise that never came. Its shadow, elongated and dark, is projected like a second story, deeper and less visible, the story of what was not.

The walls, marked by the folds and scars of time, hold echoes of a conversation that never ended. The wrinkled tablecloth, the gray stone that bears the weight of everyday life, and the absence of color: everything seems to whisper that time here doesn't move forward, only breathes slowly.

Perhaps someone was there. Perhaps they still are. But in this frozen scene, the important thing isn't who, but what remained behind: an endless wait, a contained desire, a shadow that drinks in the light without consuming it.

And so, in the quietest corner of the world, the silence of the wine tells the story of everything that could have been.