As the sun dipped its golden fingers into the horizon, shadows whispered tales of untold sweetness. Drifting specters left doodles in the margins of time, reminding us of echoes softly calling from bittersweet lament.
A chair swings idle, creaking with memory's phantom weight. Just once more, they say. A soft breeze carries traces of laughter long past, kissed by light and layered in dust of yestereves.
"Did you hear the garden breathe?" she asked, curious
"Every blade sighs sympathy", he replied, tracing forgotten hieroglyphics
Through the echo, we hear the silent prose that live in the ink stains of melancholy. A soft drone, haunting and beautiful — it calls for those who remember to dance with the shadows.