The worn armrest

I settled into her chair—

the varnish cracked and faded,

rough to the touch where her elbow

pressed down, time and again.

That patch, a smooth scar,

held the ghost of afternoons

when sunlight hit the window just right,

and the house smelled of dust and tea.

I traced the grain with my palm,

feeling years fold beneath my fingers,

wood whispering stories it won’t tell,

like a secret caught between splinters.