The ticking clock always reminds me of steel tracks unwilling to forgive the past. I remember sitting there, eyes fixed on the passing trees, the pattern of branches creating a whispered dialogue. How many had shared the space and silence with me? The old woman knitting, the couple softly arguing, the boy zooming toys across the aisle...
In an attic filled with forgotten whispers, I stumbled upon the brittle photograph. Four faces smiling without knowing the future. Gerald's cap was crooked, and Tessa's dress fluttered in a breeze that never was. I could almost hear their laughter mingling with the dust motes dancing in sunlight.
As the waves crashed, I took refuge inside a small café wedged between rocks. Alone yet not lonely, surrounded by conversations you become part of without understanding them wholly—the fishermen, their worn hands speaking loudly in gestures and moody laughter.