vases are like dreams, delicate and often overlooked, standing silent amidst the gardens of memory. the kitchen smells of cinnamon and hardwood floors, where once the echoes of laughter mingled with the clink of porcelain.

I remember a table, set for eight, each plate an archaeology of past trips and postcards. no one came, but the stare of the vase kept watch, its presence a guardian of silent conversations.

in a dusty attic, an old diary records strange events of line-dancing around today's date, accompanied by an absent-minded vase left on a shelf.

the vase was never empty: stories bloomed about it like simmering whispers during twilight hours. do they seek someone to hear them, or is their existence a ritual of solitude in ceramic forms?