She recalls a park bench, the smell of creosote mixed with rain, whispers of conversations never meant for her ears, fragments of tales left untold.
On that bench, just beyond the reach of the city's heartbeat, a man spoke of violets growing through asphalt cracks, an ode to resilience neither of them could truly grasp.
Another voice, distant yet clear, questioned the time anew, as if the present was a river too swift to notice those small eddies of eternal pause.
Footsteps on autumn leaves, echoing through a corridor of yesterdays. She can't remember whose footsteps they were—hers, his, or someone else's unremarkable shadow.
But the sound was sweet, a melody hidden in the mundane clatter of everyday lives. It whispered secrets only the universe dared to keep.