Once a soft March breeze, countless cherry blossoms folded themselves into her hair, like shy time travelers tracing back from future springs yet to be. Their scent was a song, resonating with the accordion where destiny played its passionate melody.
In the corner stood an ancient device of shimmering brass, at once an antique and a harbinger, its keys painted with histories untold. We pressed them, and the room's air trembled with echoes of a bygone affair not our own, yet achingly familiar.
With every squeeze of the bellows, tales of romance rippled across the fabric of reality. He was there, a figure both gossamer and substantial, seen through the refracting lens of memory, holding a rose that tasted of sunlight borrowed from a century past.