The other day, I felt it again. A tingle running along an invisible arm, phantom fingers brushing against my skin. It's been years since I lost that piece of me, yet sometimes I swear I can still feel the weight of a hand resting lightly on my shoulder, or see the silhouette of an arm out of the corner of my eye. I walk through my daily life, encountering familiar streets and faces, sometimes thinking I can sense the presence of something or someone significant — perhaps a memory of an event unremembered but deeply felt. I once penned notes of a life lived through these phantom senses. One read: "The sun on a shoulder no longer there, warm and oddly comforting. Like a ghost's breath, gentle and light." Was it real, this shoulder of mine? Or merely the echo of a life not yet lived? Such musings lead me down paths scattered with remnants of other forgotten chronicles. Perhaps, if one looks closely, these paths will reveal shadows of more stories, like the ones here: paths/whisper.html or trails/echoes.html.