In the beginning, there are always unshed tears—like morning dew droplets clinging desperately to the edges of unfinished petals.
Somewhere in the pages, there lay a chapter about the time I chased fleeting shadows under the golden arches of a street lamp. Was it summer then?
Listen closely, they say every echo has a story of its own; a tale of journeys started halfway, and adventures penned in invisible ink. Have you heard them?
Once, the voice of aloof silence murmured secrets in the ripples of a pond far beyond the city fog. Would you dare follow them?
The letters we left unsent, perhaps were longing for the postmen who dared travel to such distant fantasies as these.