In the gentle embrace of twilight, I walked through a memory not mine. A place where the sound of lavender whispered secrets older than any tongue. Here, the sunlight lays gently on forgotten paths, tracing illustrations of dreams misplaced.
Somewhere between the road and the stream, I found a book with pages made of mist. It spoke in echoes of laughter from lives lived in parallel. A park bench with one unread postcard and an empty coffee cup stood sentinel in this space suspended in time.
Did I walk past the familiar face? That stranger who seemed to know my name? Their eyes, orbs of nostalgia, held reflections of late-night conversations and the lingering scent of petrichor.