There’s a place on the corner of Third and Elm where you hear voices from nowhere. It’s like stepping into an old photograph, the kind you find dust-covered in a drawer you barely remember having. People pass, eyes fixed on their phones, leaving trails of conversations in snippets, half-words caught in the wind.
I once heard a woman’s laugh, bright and airy, echoing against the brick walls. It felt like a line from a poem I once knew but had forgotten. The street seemed to pause, captured in that sound, like we were all waiting for something that never came.
The bells of St. Mary’s rang out, their chimes blending with a distant siren’s song, an orchestra of city life familiar yet alien, forever intertwined with the hum of engines and the rustle of a passing breeze. Do they ever stop, these symphonies we take for granted?