The Waiting Bag

A bag hangs on the wall, between silence and time, its straps like tired arms that once held the world.

It remembers movement-streets rushing past, hands that held it close, days that never paused.

Now it rests, light as forgotten breath, yet heavy with echoes-of rain, of footsteps, of somewhere.

Dust settles like soft memories, and still, it waits-not in emptiness, but in becoming.

For one day, a hand will return, and it will carry life again.

Product: Print
Size: Custom