In a room bathed in soft, fading light, An old woman sits, her gaze fixed out of sight, The open window, a portal to the world beyond, A silent witness to dreams that have quietly absconded.

Her wrinkled hands trace the patterns on the quilt, A tapestry of memories, each thread richly built, Recalling the warmth of her home, now a distant place, Where laughter once flowed, now but a fleeting trace.

Outside, the wind whispers through the trees, Carrying echoes of children's laughter on the breeze, But the sound is a specter, a phantom of the past, For the children she raised, have moved on so...