"The tree in the park... whispers want to know its name. Have you given it one, too?"
A breeze tickles the bare branches—an echo dreamlike, as if it spun from woven clouds above. Another fragment of time slips by.
"On Tuesday, at dusk, we could see the lighthouse—standing still for ages, but the water... it danced."
Pondering, the air murmured softly, a canvas for untold stories. Did you catch that? Or is it lost, maybe forever among the drifting leaves?
Path of Unwound Apricots