Do you remember those rainy afternoons, when the world outside would blur into a watercolor painting of grays and indigos? I often wonder if those moments were like whispers, softly urging us to listen to the stories etched in the clouds.
“I think the world is a little kinder when it rains,” she used to say, drifting like smoke through the corridors of my memory.
It's funny how certain places echo with the laughter of people long gone, filling the silence with a warmth that's almost tangible. I walk these streets, half-expecting to bump into a friend from yesterday, or perhaps someone I haven't yet met in the shade of yesteryears.
“There’s a mystery in every shadow,” he murmured, grasping the elusive tendrils of thoughts that slipped through his fingers like sand.
Fading Echoes Paper Boats Forgotten Whispers