A small plant growing out of a vintage radio in an attic

It sits quietly, like something left behind by time but remembered by life. The radio, once the heartbeat of a room, now breathes more slowly—its dials still, its signal silent. Yet from its rusted seams, green insists. A fragile stem dares to grow through memory and dust, choosing this forgotten stage to stretch toward light. The yellowed clock face is no longer keeper of hours, but guardian of silence. Every scratch, every worn button speaks not of failure, but of use, of presence. This is not ruin—it is refuge. In the attic’s hush, nothing is lost. The plant does not resurrect the past; it blesses it, tenderly. And the old machine, once voice and pulse, listens now. Still. Willing.

Nice 😃