Sometimes the streets grow quiet at dusk, just as the clock inside the old courthouse...... Silence becomes a companion, as shadows stretch.
From somewhere, a distant sound echoes, a memory perhaps, but it's too elusive... like fall leaves tumbling over and over...
A gentle breeze carries the scent of...
Meet me, where the forest breaks... something was promised, I think...
Note found on crumpled paper: "Once, not long ago, the paths led us…" The rest is missing.
Underneath all lies the subtle whisper of voices, ever just faint.
Doesn’t anyone wonder about the paths half-taken?