Ever had one of those evenings? You know, the kind where the twilight lingers and the stars peep out like worn-out friends? There’s a certain magic in those moments, and they seem to swirl around like autumn leaves—each whispering tales of forgotten summers.
The other day, I passed by a café with bright red umbrellas. Instantly, I was swept back to that street in Paris, 1976. Or was it 1987? Didn’t matter. The trickle of time wrapped itself around me, tenderly reminding me of conversations that never quite happened but linger just the same. This page is like that café—always bustling, always waiting to welcome you with soft echoes of deja vu.
Did you hear about the cat that plays the piano?
Strolling down life's cobbled path, these moments become beads strung onto a delicate thread of memory. Sometimes they trickle, sometimes they rain, but always they flow beneath the surface like clear mountain streams carving tales in the earth's crust.