Am I a ghost? The memories swirl like autumn leaves, tangled in an invisible web. The scent of warm bread lingers in the air — was that my grandmother's kitchen? My fingers once traced dreams onto the fabric of night, echoing laughter within the silence.
Inside the echoing hallway of the past, shadows rattle their chains. By the window, the view distorts, a kaleidoscope of faces from yonder — all exclaiming yet none
articulated.
Whispers Across Time beckons in a distant whisper.
Children once engaged in whispered secrets beneath the oak tree, secrets that danced like fireflies — blurs of light in swirling motion, briefly catching the dusk.
Faded photographs bask in quiet obscurity, bordered in uncertainty. When did dreaming replace living?
Seeing Red: A place where colors unravel into meaning.
Closing my eyes, I drown in the symphony of forgotten songs yet sung. Each note a plea, a mystery intertwined with a tapestry as old as time but as fresh as dawn. Perhaps I might linger here a little longer — just to savor that fading laughter that hides beyond the horizon.