The quiet evenings always began the same way, with the sun pouring its last golden rays into the room, painting the walls in hues of amber and honey. I would sit by the window, watching the shadows elongate across the garden, each one stretching into the other until they formed a tapestry of dark and light. It was in these moments that the world outside faded, and the only sound was the gentle rustle of leaves dancing to a breeze that seemed to come from a different time, a different place.
Sometimes, I would hear laughter, faint and distant, like echoes from a dream. Other times, it was the sound of a child's voice, singing a tune only they knew. These voices weren't real, but they were more constant than anything solid, more reliable than promises made and broken. They lived in the silence, flourishing in the spaces between thoughts that hovered like dust motes in the afternoon light.
I learned to listen to these silences, to let them envelop me like a warm blanket, letting the world fade until all that was left were memories suspended in the amber glow of the evening. Each silence was a doorway, a passage to places forgotten, and I would step through them as one does through a misty veil, expecting to find the familiar, yet always surprised by the new.