Beneath layers of dust, time, and the forgotten, a voice murmurs. "Remember the old oak tree by the river?" It asks, though the speaker's identity has long since eroded. Fossilized thoughts, trapped in the amber of conscience, waiting to be unearthed.
"We had dreams then," she continues, her words brittle as dry parchment, "dreams of far lands where no one knew our names." A whisper of aimlessness, a reminder of paths untaken, still treads lightly upon the mind's ear.
Echoes from the depths carry tales of mundane encounters—coffee on a rainy Tuesday, stolen glances across a crowded room. Moments suspended in time, fossilized in a manner that leaves them heavy yet weightless.
Has the world shifted beneath your feet, as it has mine? We stand, perhaps foolishly, at the edge of what was, peering into the chasms of what could have been. The Chasms of Could Be beckon us.
The silence afterwards is deafening, filled with the unspoken words of a thousand mornings. Each day a new layer, each moment another sediment in the vast ocean of time.