Stand here, where the steps echo faintly. Remember how the corridor felt like a bridge to something important? In dreams, it still stretches to a destination unknown. The warmth of a familiar presence lingers just a whisper away.
Do you recall the way your feet found the rhythm in this long stretch? It was as though the corridor was singing a song only you could hear, guiding your journey with its soft, unending hum.
Sometimes I feel it still, the phantom touch along my side, the palpable sense of someone brushing past. A breath of air, a rustle of clothes—nothing is there, yet everything is, in a way only the mind knows how to remember.
Here, the air carries whispers of conversations once spoken. They fade and reform, like echoes trying to piece together a story only half told. Perhaps it’s a tale of paths diverging, of journeys begun and unfinished.