I pass through life only once.
At times I feel it like a breeze brushing my forehead and vanishing; other times like a warm wave that surrounds me and frightens me with its beauty. Nothing repeats itself. Not my steps, not the mornings, not the people as they are now. Everything happens only once—and precisely for that reason, everything asks to be lived fully.

Goodness is not a plan, but a calling. It does not wait for perfect conditions. It asks for no explanations. It knocks softly on the heart and says: now. Now to say what you have kept silent. Now to embrace. Now to forgive. Because tomorrow is a fragile word, and life makes no promises.

Beautiful words are born small, almost insignificant. We speak them without knowing we have just lit a light in someone’s soul. They leave us like a whisper, yet return as an endless echo, crossing time, nights, and solitude. Sometimes, a single word is what keeps a person alive.

I think we are not here to shine, but to warm. To be that quiet presence that remains in someone’s memory as a feeling of good, as a calm. To leave behind not deep scars, but gentle traces.

For I will not pass through here again.
But perhaps, if I love enough, if I give without noise, something of me will remain—
in a smile, in a thought, in an echo that never fades.