Memories

As I begin the process of moving out, a quiet storm of memories gently stirs within me. Each item I pack, each drawer I open, brings forth fragments of moments once lived — laughter echoing in the corners of rooms, silent tears shed behind closed doors, the scent of familiar comfort. This isn’t just a physical transition — it’s an emotional unboxing of the story that made me who I am.

I’ve always believed that memories are treasures, delicate yet powerful. I collect them like love letters from time — folding them with care, tying them up in ribbons of emotion, and placing them gently in the archive of my heart. These moments — both the joyous and the painful — are not to be forgotten. They are the ink with which my life has been written.

Moving doesn’t mean leaving memories behind. It means honouring them. It means holding space for them to breathe and reminding myself that even though the setting may change, the story remains mine to carry. Some memories will sit with me over tea in a new kitchen, while others may visit on rainy afternoons or in quiet whispers before sleep.

Each memory is a thread woven into the tapestry of my soul. They remind me of how deeply I’ve loved, how bravely I’ve endured, and how beautifully I’ve grown. In the end, it’s not the walls that made this house home — it was the life I lived within them. And that life, preserved in memory, travels with me — always