The hour between tea and evening dinner, that reckless time when I photograph my mind's eye. There lay threads of childhood, unwoven and frayed. ~ whispers echo in empty rooms
While browsing an old book at 3:27 PM, above the layer of dust, I found words that once tasted sweet—experiences, and dialogues suspended like cicadas hidden in their chrysalides. Behold!
A rainy Sunday afternoon, droplets carving rivulets on rain-stained glass. Each drop carries a memory: of laughter in public parks or chilly walks home. O! forgotten layers again.