In the hour before dawn, when the world is still and thoughts unfurl, she dipped her quill into the black, abyssal sea of ink—not knowing it was the mirror of her heart. Each word, a whisper woven from starlit dreams, echoed back from shadows only she could understand.
Remember the garden? The wild roses, thorned and sweet, cradled secrets in their petals. The paths we walked lingered, entwined with the fragrance of what might have been, trailing beneath our fingertips like forgotten melodies. Trace them anew.
There, beneath the willow's watchful arm, we sought refuge from time's relentless tide. Words poured like the river's song, crafting a symphony written in the language of heartbeats and sighs. Could you hear it? Listen closer.