I stand at the crossroads, where past shadows whisper secrets in a language only half understood. The air tastes of nostalgia and echoes of laughter long faded.
Remember the winter of dreams, where every flake was a story untold? A carousel of faces blurred by time, whispering in the sighs of an anonymous breeze.
Sometimes, I see fragments of you in the cracks of the pavement, refracted through rain-soaked city lights. A fleeting glance, eternally etched in the sepia tones of memory.
The old clock ticks erratically, as it has for decades. Each tick a reminder, each tock a forgotten regret. Do the hands ever pause for a moment of pity?