“Among Roses, the Forgotten” © 2025 

By Laura Marco | www.lauramarco.es 

She lingered in that narrow space between shadow and light,
a quiet presence suspended in a moment that refused to fade.
She wasn’t looking at the world; her gaze sank into a place
far deeper—
a silent corner of memory where something once cherished
still smouldered softly. 

Light settled over her like a half-spoken secret,
tracing the curve of her face with a tenderness
that felt almost like longing.
It didn’t illuminate to reveal her—
it illuminated to remember her. 

In her hands rested a rose—
not merely a flower, but a confession in disguise.
She held it with the care of someone
who has loved something fragile
and fears the ache of losing it again.
The petals, weary and luminous,
seemed to guard every word
she had never dared to speak. 

The darkness behind her was not empty;
it was memory made visible.
A quiet echo of what had slipped away
and yet remained, stubborn and soft,
woven into the air around her. 

She did not pose.
She did not try to be seen.
She existed in that suspended breath—
a moment caught between holding on
and letting go.

And then the truth of the image unfolded:
she was the rose.
The one someone had forgotten.
The one still waiting to be remembered.
The one who, despite the melancholy
gathered around her like dusk,
still found a way to shine.

It is about the fear of falling, the vertigo of finally seeing ourselves tumble to that luminous place that awaits us, madly always being there. The luminosity inside the arch is beautiful enough, and relaxing enough to stop us from worrying all the time. Nonsense, in short, she did not feel any worry, nor despair about the inevitable end, it was written in her destiny. On the contrary, what really drove her mind to despair was the daily choice between those two presences, those two lights, cold and warm, good and bad, ambiguous and concrete. Present everywhere, even in the stone, in the shape of a current of air, a soft whisper. Who would know.

Precisely at that moment, the vertigo she felt did not come from the bright whiteness beyond the stone step that would precipitate her final fall, nor from taking wrong footsteps without balance on her high heels either. Tenderly she paused, closed her eyes and felt the energies enveloping her mind and senses, playing around her neck and hair. In short brief moments the sweet music, embraced her chest, warming her memories, nest of so many moments of cheerfulness... that honied melody was undoubtedly the best path to follow and suddenly... she felt that attractive cold. A whispering freshness that cleared all senses, attracted their attention and at every instant that viperine tongue whispered her things… don’t you know! it usually puts ideas in people's minds, there the serpent dances its cold dance, twisting in beautiful curls, ringlets of evil.

Could common conscience forget that the insignificant time of mortals knocks every day on its wandering, not only on the woman’s walk and that of everyone as well, forcing us in this pace to dance between the two opposites: what is good and what is bad. At every moment differently rhythmed, choosing and living.

What small portion is worthy to be retained? her smile, being it the sincerest, not only determined but full of acceptance; In the tedious passing of time, no one stays forever at one extreme, we all dance between good and evil, at every minute, hour, day that we are given as a present to live, then we have to choose, whether we like it or not.

Step by step, minute after minute her smile curdled among the great human condition. Time passes, dances and so did she, in her truth fullest way.

Don't you know that we, all humans, at last fall into our immeasurable whiteness without remedy, beyond that infinite jump... so, dance between good and evil! without any suffering... it is our condition of life, our humanity.

Can’t even remember when words caught my attention, but I suppose it was at an early age. At school, one day there was a class essay competition, the topic - the discovery of America - and mine was chosen, now I wonder why and I understand the reasons... not only did I talk about the caravels and the crew and the land that their eyes saw, but I got into the role of the cockroaches or rats that also travelled in the caravel, what did they feel? What did they smell or hear?

That's where my admiration for words and thoughts began. After those years of childhood, they have always accompanied me in life. The words chosen are very important, they can even heal or cure, amaze or frighten. Wrapped in words, that's how I've always walked through life, giving form to soul and words, to thoughts, to smells, to lights... with me, everything slows down in the stories, there are readers who don't like it when descriptions go too slowly, it's understandable, but I would modestly stay to live in a description forever and there I would quietly spend my moments.

The image faithfully reflects my great passion in life: between life and words without half measures, without major artifice. No archetypes, no clichés.

I hope to continue like this until my mind can bear it, a hug!.