What do we truly see when we look at one another?
Faces? Gestures? Masks?
Or the quiet imprint of what has touched us?
Some people walk with us only a few steps,
yet leave marks that never fade.
Like the shadow of a wing brushed across our shoulder.
Each of us carries it — that invisible trace.
Left by those who held us when we had forgotten how to hold ourselves.
We call them friends. Strangers.
Coincidences.
But maybe they are more.
Maybe each of us is an angel who has simply forgotten their wings.
And maybe we see them only when we pause long enough to feel what has always been there.
