Anthesis of Sadness

The closet. Always the same. Dark. Dusty. Saturated with a silence that clung to the throat.

But this time, something had changed. A light passed under the door — thin, pale, almost timid, but bright enough to cut through the shadows. It drew a line on the floor, sharp, unreal, like a wound in the darkness.

And in that light... something maybe moved. Or it was me trembling.

I could see only it. That pale line, almost unreal, like a fresh scar on the skin of the world. My gaze stayed locked on it, unable to move, fascinated by its sharpness.

There was something too precise there, too pure, that had no place in this broken world. And yet, it shone. As if it were calling me. As if it knew.

I saw legs. Outstretched. Twisted as after a fall. A body, no doubt. A fallen body.

And with it, the sound. A dull noise, muted, muffled by distance and walls, yet real. True. Undeniable. It wasn’t a clear memory, nor a reconstructed image — it was a sensation. That of an impact one doesn’t want to hear but that the body, itself, never forgets.

There had been, I believe, that smell. A mixture of dust, old wood, and something else. Something wetter. Redder.

And that metallic taste, at the back of the tongue, that rose like a threat. I had wanted to breathe less strongly, but the air itself had already understood.

And me... always me. Crouched behind the partition. Tiny. Ridiculously small in a world too big, too loud, too violent for what I was back then.

Hands pressed over my mouth, not to keep silent — but to disappear.