In the quiet of the late afternoon, you find the crumbs left behind. Not of bread, nor cake, but of moments—granules of time pressing upon the present. Each speck a story, a fragment of a living past. Footsteps echo, yet unseen, shaping patterns on the floor of your mind.
The hallway stretches onward, its distance marked by invisible signposts of memory. Unseen travelers tread silently, through corridors of thought where light seldom reaches. They leave behind a trail: whispered reflections, half-formed dreams, shadows of once-vivid voices.
Many steps have wandered here, many times have turned at these unseen intersections. Hands that have reached for doors unloved and unknowing, the air thickens with their patient waiting.
Do you remember, beneath the old oak tree, where roots tangled with earth to form tiny cathedrals of shade? Pages turned in forgotten books, stories... or perhaps echoes of your own drifting away on autumn winds.
A breadcrumb path leads to nowhere specific, yet everywhere familiar. And in finding the way, we sometimes discover more about ourselves than we intended.