The horizon beckoned incomprehensibly clear; an outline against the darkening skies, fiery and eternal. The echoes of the day lingered in her steps, recoiling back where they began as shadows and whispers. Everydayness never really grasped her. Instead, she turned memories in her hands like damp clay, needing just the right balance of imagination and reality to shape sanity from whispers.
Alone in her corner apartment, Jane found solace in rearranging her universe. The daily clutter became relics and totems reformed through inner dialogues. "Should I rearrange by color, shape, or some unknown rhyme?" she questioned softly, conscious of the void audience beyond her eyelids, nodding dimly.
It was here that she ventured every evening, drawing maps from coincidence and reading stories that could've happened equally to someone else, somewhere far or near. Testaments murmured through dry pages of books, old ticket stubs full of forgotten adventures, cities alive vividly in glimpses.
Amidst this sparse chaos, the aroma of pressed coffee drifted listlessly, curling as syllables within a poem untold. Her phone lit up, an unfamiliar number suggesting presence misunderstood and rudimentary; a vague certainty rested upon letting it remain unanswered, details piling as unused footage left with editors.
Embark on new echoes: