It's in those silent early hours, when the world is wrapped in a blanket of muted stars and gentle winds, that shadows start to whisper. It's said they carry tales of the forgotten paths and the dreams that never found the light of day.
Walking through the streets then, beneath the flickering lamps that cast long, dancing silhouettes, one could hear them—soft voices, like the rustling of autumn leaves, murmuring secrets in a tongue forgotten by time.
But not all whispers are meant to be heard. Some tales are better left in the shadows, where their presence can only be felt, not understood. There are places marked by these whispers, where the ground hums and the air shimmers just out of focus.
Last Wednesday, around the seventh lamp post on Elm Street, a shadow lingered longer than the others. That's where I heard it—a single word, clearer than any whisper had right to be: "Remember." But remember what? The shadows remained silent, their secrets wrapped tight, like a warm cloak on a winter's night.
So I walk. Always walk. Through streets once familiar, now veiled in mystery, with shadows as my only company. Perhaps, one day, I'll decipher their stories. Or perhaps, I'll let them be, content in the knowledge that some tales were never meant for endings.