Standing at the counter my hand grazes glass

Standing at the counter, my hand grazes glass,

a fingerprint left behind, a ghost of presence.

While cleaning, I find smudges of struggle—

each mark a story held in the quietude,

a narrative of those who passed through,

whispers captured, lingering like dust.

I wipe clean, revealing spots that shine bright,

yet the stories remain, hidden and whole,

these invisible impressions alive in their scars.