He wanders slowly,
hands in his pockets,
eyes tracing the faces
frozen in time,
their stories reaching out
from the quiet walls.
The floor creaks softly beneath him,
but the air feels heavy
weighted with voices
of those who came before,
their struggles etched
in faded photographs and glass cases.
He pauses, tilts his head,
reading a caption,
a snap of a different world.
Does he see himself there,
in their strength,
their fight,
their hope?
The flags hang above him,
a quiet pride,
but it’s the small thing,
the weathered hands,
the tired eyes of heroes long gone,
that pull at something deep.
He breathes it in,
this room of memory.
And as he moves,
his reflection follows,
a reminder
that history is not just behind us.
It walks beside us,
in the rhythm of our moves.