Where do shadows gather when the lights are dimmed? They linger, caught in a constant loop, fading like old voices on the airwaves—memory tucked amidst the folds of silence.
Here sit the lingering notes of laughter: a phantom swell in the space marked “home.” When echoes chase nostalgia, they trip on the word “used to.”
How can stillness stir a question? Is the presence felt through absence an individual arrangement of heartbeats muted in unison, like leaves brushing against the fabric of time?