In the garden where shadows flirted with light, she drew sketches of words that never formed. It was an unwritten chapter bound only by her longing—ah, but words are mere specters in the lands of dreams. Until the stars speak, they lay dormant.
His voice was a soft symphony, echoing from the other side of an age-old mirror, compelling her to write on the fogged glass, to leave traces of a love that could not be named. The pages of their existences turned slowly, like the autumn leaves reaping the bittersweet wind. Promise made, promise undone.
Distorted frequencies vibrated through the silence, a clandestine dialogue only the heart could decipher. She yearned for ink, for permanence, but all that remained were impressions in the sand, soon to be washed away by tides that knew not her name.
And so, within the echoes of forgotten laughter and unheard melodies, their tale lingered— whispering of what was, what could never be, an eternal dance in the shadowed alcoves of time.