Time is a thief with no face

 Time is a thief with no face, no footsteps, and no tell-tale jingle of keys. It doesn't break down your door or smash a window; it simply slips in, an invisible current, and siphons away moments, days, and years. You rarely notice it in the act, only in the aftermath, when you reach for something that was once vibrant and full, only to find it faded, diminished, or utterly gone.

It steals the bloom from a rose, leaving behind brittle, brown edges. It lifts the laughter from a child's eyes, replacing it with the quiet wisdom of age. It pilfers the sharp edges of grief, softening them into a dull ache, and then, eventually, into a memory you have to strain to recall. It's a master of illusion, making the present feel endless while simultaneously whisking away the past.

You try to guard your treasures, to hold onto the golden hours. You build forts of routine, walls of intention, but time, the faceless thief, flows through every crevice. One moment you're basking in the warmth of a summer afternoon, convinced it will last forever, and the next, you're shivering in the bite of winter, wondering where the sun went. It's not malicious, this thief; it’s simply relentless, driven by an indifferent, ceaseless hunger. And the cruelest part? It leaves no ransom note, offers no exchange. It just takes, and moves on, leaving you to sift through the empty spaces where your moments used to be.