There was a silence
that wasn't empty,
but filled with the creak of wood,
the ticking of a clock
that hurried no one.

Days arrived more slowly,
as if time itself
still had to learn how to pass.

People looked each other in the eye,
spoke with fewer words,
but with more weight.

There was space to wait,
to wander without aim,
to do nothing
without guilt.

Not everything was better,
but everything was different.
And sometimes
I breathe
as if I'm still here.