Felt Presence

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The toothbrush is still in the cup. The sandals remain by the bed. The dentures rest as if waiting for someone who will never return. The bed is left undone, folding the light that spills through the window.

Yesterday she was here. Today, only the trace of what was remains.

You enter the kitchen and feel an emptiness that is full of presence. Someone passed through, left everything in its place, and left. Memory seems to live in the things left behind. A whisper in every object, an invisible gesture on the floor.

It’s strange, almost absurd: how can everything still be here, and no one remain? How can a house remember those who left, while we cannot?

Have you ever been in a house like this? Where absence is so clear it becomes almost a body? Where silence is not empty, but full of who was once there?

Every object seems to speak, but in a whisper only attention can catch. Felt presence, the trace, the lingering: everything that was and is no more, everything that touches us without showing itself.​​