"It's not the place, but the people we carry with us," she said while staring into the distance, as if the words were meant for someone who couldn't hear them anymore.
The wooden floor creaked underfoot. "We've always found our way back home," he whispered, though the room felt empty, filled only with the scent of aged paper and distant laughter.
A voice crackled like an old radio tuning in, "Nothing ever really ends, does it? Just pauses between breaths, waiting for the next inhalation." Silence followed, thick and comforting.