In the sepia-toned twilight, she stands by the window, tracing shadows with her eyes. Outside, the wind hums forgotten lullabies, weaving through the branches like the hands of a hesitant clock.
Once upon a glance, a whisper passed, ethereal and shy, between the spaces of words never spoken. It settled gently upon her like dust upon an unwritten book.
“You remember,” she murmurs to the silent room, “when rain used to dance upon the roof and each drop carried a secret of its own?” Her voice is a feather, light and tender, echoing against the stillness.
"Sometimes, the words hidden beneath the surface tell stories even the heart forgets it knows."
Beyond the door, the world spins on, oblivious to the whispers of the past. But here, in the sanctuary of her mind, the forgotten glances hold a universe of their own — wild and unremembered.
And what of the paths not taken, those tender avenues of possibility that faded like mist at dawn? She opens a window to them, just a crack, letting the phantom breezes slip through.
Whispers of Another Time