Every morning he opens the door slowly,
as if waking someone who is no longer there.
Dust rests upon the bedspread,
but he doesn’t sweep it away:
he prefers to imagine it
as an invisible embrace.
The drawings still cover the walls,
shoes aligned neatly under the bed,
her favorite dress hanging in the closet.
Everything waits, unmoved,
as if she might come running back
to say dinner is ready.
Neighbors ask if he plans to change anything,
if perhaps it would be better to donate her things,
to close the wound.
He forces a faint smile,
because they cannot understand that each object
is still a thread tying him to his daughter.
Sometimes he sits on the floor,
reading aloud her favorite stories,
as if her little voice might interrupt
with endless questions.
The tears fall,
but he hides them between the pages,
knowing that book will never close again.
At night he leaves the lamp lit,
as though she might suddenly appear asking for water,
as though time could be deceived
by an unbroken ritual.
He doesn’t move anything,
he doesn’t change anything,
because shifting one object would be to admit it,
to acknowledge that she will never return.
And so, each night he turns off the light in the room
with a caress in the air,
whispering: “good night, my daughter”,
though only silence replies.
Silence…
and a room that will keep waiting for her forever.