Another night, another circle of warm orange light.
Wasn't there something about owls? Or was it the wind telling secrets again?
You remember how we spoke of paths that weren't taken, the whispers making patterns like gentle ripples across time.
Each spoke soul with stories burnt into consciousness, echoed carols waiting for twilit embers to unfurl.
Have you ever noticed the patterns that emerge when you're toasted memories slipped ever-so slightly askew? Your cup, your blanket, your stare at those distant trees like someone searching with kind eyes and gentle quirk: "What secrets linger over there, where light can't quite go, you know?"