The routine footfalls in the hall drew pensiveness. She'd long forgotten when those sounds used to bring her joy, marking steps towards conversations never had but eagerly anticipated in the sweet twilight of her youth.

In attic boxes, the her scripts lay yellowing, their words a window to a past she dared not visit yet could not evade. Lines inked with naïveté, longing to bridge futures imagined.

A soft breeze tangled with an echo of music lost in time; dances of memories swirled amidst the echo of a locked door. If only the key rains down this season of dusty contemplation, where shadows whisper secrets of long-cherished dreams.