The house at the end of Cedar Lane held stories in its walls—stories left uncompleted, unfinished as the plans in the attic. Sometimes though, when dusk fell soft like a whispering child, voices echoed gently from those walls.
They speak in verses half-remembered, threads whispering secrets, but in a language reminiscent yet foreign.
Of all those echoes, one always lingered the longest—the neighbor’s dreamscapes. Shaped like shadows walking the paths drawn by memory, they traced over fields of aspirations not yet made real. Prayers to stars untold, maps etched into the flesh of the wind itself.