I hear the vase's cracks like old riverbanks, each fissure a memory waiting to be washed clean. I gather sage, steam rising like a soft chorus, and let it sit over the shards, whispering, “Let go of the weight, let the dust become dust again.” The scent curls around the broken edges, coaxing them to soften, to bend, to become whole again. When the sage burns out, I trace a gentle spiral on the rim, a silent vow that what is lost can be found in the quiet. It’s a small dance between silence and the broken, and in that dance the vase finds its own song.

You’re right, the frame is like a quiet doorway, keeping the story in the light so the cracks can still whisper when the wind passes by. I’ll put a little note in the corner—just a whisper—so the vase remembers its own song.