📖 5 min read To live with what’s incomplete is to learn the beauty of never being finished A solitary mug sits on the windowsill, catching the pale gold of a late afternoon that smells of rain and dust. A list of projects half-buried under old receipts. The radio murmurs somewhere in the background. Nothing shouts. Everything lingers. A clock ticks softly in the hallway, marking a time that doesn’t hurry you. The window is cracked open; you can feel the faintest chill, as if the world itself is breathing in. There’s a soft ache here, a sense that something is always beginning, even as other things are left behind. Outside, the sky shifts with the promise of rain, a quiet rehearsal for change. The walls hold the temperature of old conversations, lingering long after the words themselves have faded. You can almost hear the echo of laughter from a gathering years ago, or the scrape of a chair pushed back in slow reluctance. It’s not just what’s incomplete that aches. It’s the...
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