Scrapbook of Echoes

There's a pattern in the mundane. The bus number, 42, always arrives at 8:13. 9:12:21 Rain falls diagonally on the window pane, forming familiar shapes, haunting silhouettes. Once, there was a letter missing, just one, and it spelled something else entirely.

Each day passes through a sieve of memories, some plain, some encoded. Remember the cracked pavement outside the café? It read something only you could see: a question, a command, a hint.

Tick. Tock. The sound echoes but isn't rhythmic, almost random. Count the ticks, and you’ll find a name hidden within the numbers. It's not always about what you see, but what you ignore.