The Silence That Will Speak of Me

There will come a day

when my name is no longer spoken.

Not out of cruelty,

but because time moves on.

The hands that hold my photographs

will grow old.

The voices that call me will grow quiet.

The footprints I leave will be washed away

by a thousand sunsets and strangers' steps.

And the world—

the world will not pause.

It never does.

On that day,

someone might find a book I underlined,

or a scarf I once wore,

or a notebook filled with thoughts I never shared.

But they won’t know me.

Not really.

They won’t know the way I loved silently,

or the way I woke up some nights,

not from nightmares,

but from the weight of unanswered prayers.

They won’t know the things I gave up,

or the things I carried.

And they will not need to.

Because I didn’t live to be remembered here.

I lived to be remembered There.

In the unseen scrolls held by angels.

In the quiet corners of the sky

where my duas flew—

sometimes shaking, sometimes strong,

but always real.

What I gave in secret,

what I forgave in silence,

what I bore with patience—

that is what I want written beside my name

when the earth forgets me.

This life, beautiful as it is,

was never meant to last.

Its laughter fades.

Its beauty wrinkles.

Its comfort shifts like sand.

But somewhere beyond time,

a record remains.

Not of what I owned—

but of what I did

when no one was watching.

So if one day, you pass by a grave with no flowers,

with no name you recognize—

say a prayer.

Maybe it’s mine.

And maybe your one whisper

will light up a soul

in a world where light never fades.