I don't like the end of the year; it arrives like a silent shadow, revealing pains and memories that death didn't take away. They speak of new beginnings as if time erases marks, but some stories cling, stain, and don't close. There are absences that traverse, names that have remained in time, a silent mourning that doesn't understand calendars. The world insists on fireworks, loud laughter, and new goals, but my heart prefers the silence of one who survived a little longer. Lights blink in the streets, but not all the light arrives; there are silences that December doesn't resolve and promises that January doesn't fulfill. While the world toasts the future, I gather what's left of the present: crooked lessons, a burden of mistakes, and the discreet courage to continue. Perhaps hope is this: to continue, even sadly, believing that one day the weight of time will become lighter. Perhaps it's not about turning the year, but about accepting time as it is: imperfect, human, and yet still mine.