The Afternoon That Forgot to Move

The chime hangs low, painted and worn. Its string twists slightly, as if the air had moved a moment before the picture was taken. The light is kind — soft on the edges, patient with the colours.

The focus is shallow; the world has turned into tone and weight. A faint rainbow slides through the corner of the frame, almost too shy to name. Nothing is loud. Even colour whispers.

The image feels like a held breath. You sense the heat, the slow movement of the day, the quiet after something small has ended. The chime is both object and memory, a sound you can’t hear but still know. It’s a moment that belongs to no one — a piece of still air that somehow remembers touch.