A tall man with black curly hair

He stands before the old house like a question left unanswered by time : the walls behind him bowing, the roof heavy with autumn’s farewell. The wind carries whispers of what once was, moving through the dry stalks like a memory trying to speak again. His hair, dark and untamed, catches the faint light of a waning day, and his gaze, steady yet distant, holds the weight of departures too long delayed. The house seems to lean toward him, as if recognizing its last witness, its keeper of echoes. 🍂✨ I feel a deep tenderness for this moment :where solitude doesn’t wound, but remembers.