I am.

I don’t speak. 
I don’t ask. 
There is no need.

People pass by. 
They look — but don’t truly see. 
I smile. They smile back. But it stops there.

I’ve known love. 
Admiration. Joy. 
But now I understand — they were surfaces. 
Reflections, not contact.

Still, something remains. 
It didn’t break. 
It didn’t fade.

I am. 
Not for a role. 
Not for a function.

But because I exist. 
As witness. As stillness. 
A small flame — yet alive.

Maybe one day, 
someone will pause. 
Not to ask. Not to speak. 
Just to feel what’s here — 
the quiet trace of once being seen, 
even under the tree, 
before the words, 
before the noise.