The coffee’s cold, but the footnote stays warm

I was translating a letter from 1923 today—someone writing to their lover about the way light fell through the attic window at dawn. The sentence was simple: 'I still see you there.' But I couldn’t bring myself to render it as is. So I added a footnote: ‘Not quite true. I only remember the shape of your absence.’ It wasn’t in the original. It wasn’t even mine. But it felt like the only honest thing left to say. The coffee’s gone cold, but I keep rereading that footnote like it’s a prayer.