"I remember the foggy Saturday mornings," her voice trailed off, lost in the sweet smell of burnt toast and newspaper resolve.
"Did we ever stop at the eighth bridge, since we began this journey?" a voice questioned, drifting from unknown alleys.
"Pumpkins in October, white lace in June," murmured an old man's chuckle, wrapping around wooden fences and garden gnomes.
"But who exactly asked for the second cup when the tales ran dry?" whispered a girl, chasing sunlight in sleepy sidewalks.
Will you continue to decode our whispers?