In the creases of conscience, reality twists. A cat sits by the window, its tail twitching with unspoken truths, guard over a world slowly falling apart. Some days, shadows talk, and the sky looks like it forgot its color as it grays and pales in the whistle of a soft wind.
Do you recall that shop on the corner? The one that claimed memories as currency? No? Perhaps you traded your laughter away during a conversation with a stranger wearing mismatched socks and a hat aligned just right with mischief.
A note, yellowed by time, insists that the bits of forgotten realities lie in burnt matches beneath the old carousel down the street. Just yesterday, someone whispered about this, or maybe it was an echo lingering too long in a silent café.