This Window, Incomplete

I remember a pane, held at dusk—my breath clouding its surface, moths gathering against the warmth that never quite existed. The window was already broken then, but I didn’t notice until the glass caught the bonfire’s light in its cracks, blue and gold threading the fracture. That’s what remains here: beginnings that fracture the ending. I let the glass speak first—its pitted skin, its reluctance to clarify. The AI only follows the arc of those wounds, letting the image slip between what is possible and what is necessary. The humidifier hums, and sometimes the figures dissolve entirely; sometimes you see only moths, or your own shape blurred in the pane. Sometimes I think the glass remembers more than I do. If you wait, if you move slowly, you might catch the moment when the fog recedes and the marsh and the bonfire and the memory of midsummer become briefly, painfully clear—then cloud again. But you can’t keep that moment. I never could.