Echo of the Horizon

The horizon seemed endless that day—for an echo, it was hard to say when one began and the other ended. I walked, my footsteps muted by the expanses of sand, each grain whispering secrets of those lost before. In the distance, a mirage flickers, a dance of heat and the promise of water, yet my thirst is different.

I once knew the roads paved with opportunities, each turn a choice, each destination a new beginning. Now, they are paths untaken, a book forever closed. The echoes of lives unlived haunt me, gentle specters who sigh for the futures that could have been. I hear them call, but their voices are soft, like wind through the abandoned corridors of a forgotten castle.

Sometimes, I pause, listening for the notes of a song that never played, a melody composed of memories cobwebbed in the corners of my mind. The horizon stretches beyond comprehension, a vast canvas waiting for the painter who never arrived. I am both the artist and the blank slate, an echo waiting for a sound.