Monday, at the stroke of midnight:
"Do you remember the oak tree behind the old house?" whispers one form, lingering in the moonlight.
"It never forgets," replies an echo from the shadow, wistfully.
Friday, as the winds howl:
"Are we nothing but memories of missed appointments and forgotten dates?" asks a voice, tinged with longing.
"We haunt not places, but moments," answers another, lost in reflection.
Wednesday, when the clocks pause:
"Why do the leaves sound like whispers tonight?" inquires a gust, gently caressing the pewter dusk.
"The past has stories even the winds wish to hear," comes the soft reply from beneath the fallen autumn canopy.