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I watch the light fade across the floorboards, tracing paths I’ve walked for decades. There’s a weight to the silence here, a heavy collection of moments I let slip away. I suppose some stories are meant to stay quiet, echoing only within these four walls until the very end.

I noticed my son-in-law checking my safe combination last night when he thought I was sleeping. The same safe containing my new will that leaves everything to charity. Let them think I'm getting senile - it makes documenting their schemes much easier.

The coffee had grown cold, forgotten like so many things in this cramped apartment. Through the window, the city lights flickered like dying stars, each one holding someone else's story. He wondered if they too sat awake at 3 AM, haunted by the words they never said.

Yesterday I counted my reflections in the house mirrors. There were seven of me, or maybe seven of my brothers. We shared one apple between us. Nobody knows who actually ate it. Maybe the mirror people took it. It was filling, though.

You know what happened at the doctor's office today? He told me I need to start eating more healthy food. I told him, "Doc, at my age, the expiration date on the milk lasts longer than I do!"

Sometimes I watch the birds outside my window, remembering when I used to walk in parks with her. The morning light catches their wings just so, and I think about how time moves like those birds - swift and graceful, leaving only memories behind.

And when I was young, maybe about sixteen or so, we had to work very, very hard in those days. The community was different then, and people would help each other more. My mother, she would always say that times were harder but people were kinder.

Used to be we could count on the seasons, predict the weather. Now everything's different. They say it's just climate cycles, natural changes. But we know better, don't we? The truth's in the dying fields, in the empty grain silos.