Upon the crests of forgotten path and mountain, where daylight dapples through the sylvan leaves, there lies an echo of a song softly sung by time itself—a serenade to the shadowed memories of another's hand, a phantom touch that wanders like a gust of wind, tracing unseen arcs in the air.
Beneath the cerulean canvas, where the sundrenched afternoons weave golden tapestries of old, our hearts lingered where words were but mere vessels to thoughts fragrant as wildflowers, longing in their soft descent, whispering legacies of a profound yearning.
The wind carries their benedictions, and I am left to roam this ethereal expanse, touching phantom leaves, waltzing on precipices with an unseen partner, lost to the ether yet indelibly present within my soul's woven fabric.
Does the mountain remember, I ask? Each stone and shadow cradles its own tender memories, sighing with the resonance of hearts once woven close, tethered by tale and by whispered promise of return.