A forgotten street. Dim lights flicker from distant horizons. Figures pass in hushed circles.
She adjusts her hat, a signal barely registered, a nod known only to him. They stand in odds, the language of mirrors, reflecting what was said in words they wouldn't dare speak, at least not here.
Emerging from shadows, his silhouette feels like an echo of hesitation. Streets aged under the weight of stories untold.
Hands meet beneath the desk, a gentle pressure indicating the heartbeat of unvoiced confessions. Her eyes, a mystery wrapped in conspiracy, draw him nearer, yet the gap fills with the whisper of a bygone era's print.
"Our secret," she mouths, the tremor hardly perceptible even in the glow of lanterns.
It travels faster than sound, a current swimming through the rivulets of movieframe silence. Future bridged by past fragments where whispers are seen, not heard.