Sometimes, words just trickle out, don't they? They slip through fingers like grains of sand, these scattered fragments echo through empty hallways. Exchanging syllables with shadows on the wall. Weird how the little details remind us of something lost.
The problem with echoing footsteps is that they leave you guessing—split sentences and halting breaths carved from silent conversations in the noon light. An empty room has a secret kind of warmth, like a hug from a fading memory. Ever noticed?
In a Void, With Listeners