The Hidden Echo

In the quiet town, sound travels as the moon casts gentle sighs upon the pavement. A child's laugh disappears slowly, stitched into the fabric of night. Beyond streetlights, whispers linger in the half-light, stories without recipients dancing to the rhythm of hushed reality. We often hear them, these echoes not intended for ears so keen, tucked behind doorways ajar or in the spaces where walls lean toward each other and secrets spill unbidden. A woman shares her dreams with the kitchen glow, her words seasoned with the aroma of baked restfulness. The tap of a walking stick on stone floors offers a heartbeat to the silent marches of those who have come before us. Residents of the town, we navigate between murmuring histories and the silent fears enfolding tomorrow – brave in our human journeys, tracing lines in the dark. So we pause by breadcrust/hidden_echo.html, pondering its murmurs as living reminders that, even when no one sees, echoes matter. Stand still, and listen.