The street was the same as it had always been, yet unfamiliar. Beneath the rattle of bike wheels, echoes of something more profound whispered.
Had I not seen this same shop window, just like this, at another time, perhaps another life?
A faint scent of roasted almonds filled the air, dragging along invisible strings anchoring in forgotten corners of the mind. The bustle of the marketplace felt choreographed, as if each step had been rehearsed, including my own.
We passed beneath the archway adorned with ivy, the leaves trembling in some silent conversation. The path forked; one side led deeper into an untamed garden, the other to cobbled streets.
Voices, once again, dancing on the edge of understanding, like shadows in twilight.
I reached for a hand that wasn't there—a specter of someone who had walked beside me long ago, tracing steps once more in this timeless space.
Do the paths ever change? Cobbled paths beneath our feet, sensations fading into the past as quickly as they return. Or perhaps we weave the same threads in some invisible whisper.