Wandering down these sunlit streets, each step stirs echoes lodged in cobblestones. It's strange, you leave and the place holds its breath, only to exhale when you're absent again.
Tales told in whispers by the park benches, conversations caught mid-thought, a murmur suspended in amber. Who were we then, beneath the old sycamore? Overheated summer days make you believe in things— like futures filled with unexpected contentment.
Remember: An old book, its cover dusted thick, half-remembered stories lean against one another. Pages brittle as carpenter bee wings, these narratives rumble in sleep, patiently awaiting reconnection.