The Yellow Sofa

"I am a sofa. Two seats, a folded bed nobody ever asked to see, and a yellow that - I'm told - was the colour of the year the year nobody bought yellow. Being forgotten, it turns out, is not the same as being over."

It was an extravagance. Salvador didn't blink at the price. He had seen his wife's face, and that was enough. For a while the yellow sofa was the brightest thing in the house: a small girl asleep across its cushions, a bed kept ready for guests, sunlight pooling in the leather.
Then, one forgivable object at a time, it disappeared. Coats. Boxes. Books. Years. In the dark beneath the clutter, it began to forget it had ever been beautiful, just as, in another room, a painter quietly stopped painting.
This is the story of what waits. Narrated by the sofa itself, wry about its own uselessness, tender about everything it loved. The Yellow Sofa is a fable about worth that doesn't expire in the waiting, about being saved by being useful to someone you love, and about the day a heavy, half-forgotten thing is finally carried back into the light.

Because late is not less. And it's never too late...
And nothing is truly over while someone can still choose to look.

To be seen is to be born again.