In the whisper of a flickering streetlight, echoes of unanswered calls linger. Beyond the mist, where the telephone wires touch the horizon, lost conversations drift like autumn leaves.
Somewhere, a phone rings. The sound is distant, perhaps imagined. A voice asks: "Is anyone there?" but the line crackles with nothingness. The shadows of the past embrace the unanswered tones.
There is a record of time slipping away, the juncture where voices once connected over miles untold. Threads of fate, woven through wires, forgotten in the dust of digital graves.
The old switchboard hums in dreams. Faces of operators blur into obscurity, their fingers dance over connections unseen. Another voice, urgent and pale, reaches out from the ether:
"Call back... back to the beginning of it all."
Silent Whispers