In the quiet evenings, when the world holds its breath, you might catch a glimpse of something lost to time. A footstep echoed in the hallway, but who walks here with me? The rumbling of a chair as if settled by another pair of hands. I dare not glance back.
They often say refuge is found in the things unseen. Like the gnarled branches of the oak outside, silhouetted against a moonlit sky, their shadows snakes curling to dance lightly over my wall. I wonder what stories they tell when no one dare listen.
Walk over to whispers, share a moment where the voice of the past tends to linger longer, warming its phantom presence with every hollow reverberation across the dim-lit corners.
Sometimes, I catch myself knowing things I shouldn't, as if the shadows spoke in secret tongues only a ghost might understand. An exchange of letters penned in invisible ink; a routine you forget in the light of day, yet in the dark it claims your heart like a mythological love.
Fragmented paths lie scattered, imbued with echoes, making you ponder if footsteps could ever be anything more than simple reminders of our abstraction, transparency cast into shapes unknown.