The air shimmered with presence, soft and weightless. Each cloud seemed to lean closer, shifting shape as if to be recognized. They were not ghosts but echoes—reminders that nothing ever truly disappears. The sky, I realized, is where memory goes when it learns to breathe again.

Each drift was a name lost in translation, reshaped by the wind and offered again to anyone willing to listen. I listened. The sound was not in the air but inside the heart— a hum that felt like prayer without words.

Some faces smiled before fading; others wept into rain. The clouds moved like thoughts finding peace—forming, dissolving, returning to the unseen water of remembrance. Even their silence felt alive, pulsing with the rhythm of lives that once belonged to earth but now travel as sky.

In that moment, I understood: we are not forgotten. We are simply spoken differently—sometimes as wind, sometimes as color, sometimes as the shadow crossing light at the edge of evening. Every return begins with looking up.

When I woke, the clouds outside were ordinary again, but something in me remained weightless. I whispered thank you—not to the heavens, but to the memory that had learned to float.