Some places forget themselves slowly—others remember, even after we stop looking.
This place had clearly been left behind. What remained was stillness — soft decay, slow buildup, layers of time settling without resistance.
But the water held on.
It didn’t just collect debris — it reflected sky. Clear, steady, as if the clouds had chosen to rest there, just for a moment.
I didn’t try to look past the dirt.
There was no need to clean it up or frame it better.
The reflection was part of the ruin. And somehow, the ruin made the reflection feel more true.
Some surfaces don’t forget, even when everything around them has.
They just wait — quiet, open —
for someone to notice what’s still being held.
