Fingers Tapping

Once upon an evening, in a realm where shadows tangled like lovers lost in emotional gravity wells, she sat by the whispering window. Light's departure left behind spectral echoes, etching melancholic dreams onto the stark canvas of reality. Her fingers danced, tapping a rhythm only her heart knew—a solitary lullaby filled with the sounds of forgotten hopes.

The gentle cadence of the zephyr outside mirrored her own muted symphony. Conversations, like rain, dripped in metaphors upon the iron rooftop above—a tapestry of forgotten voices. "Do they too seek the solace of the silence?" she pondered as her fingertips wove tales over invisible strings.

In the tiny theater of her mind, scenes unfurled like the lehen of noon's unprecedented touch. A past unmarred by gravity wells or the weighty pull of unspoken farewells whispered through her bones. Fingertips on metaphorical strings bridged the void.

It was there, amongst the passionate whispers of a time unclaimed, that she traced the fragmentary portrait of laughing eyes across time, weaving together as easily as a waiting game. She had become a spectre, lost in the euphoria of spaces between vibrant moments.

Would her refrain answer? It might reside in the database of echoes yet unseen. Perhaps, it simply persists.