A cloud hangs low over the village today, an ethereal blanket obscuring the fading glow of the afternoon sun. Marisa watches from her window, the glass streaked with rain and time, as children play beneath banners of grey. Their laughter peals out, a sporadic sonnet punctuated by bursts of honesty — something she misses. The village is holding its breath, and in this silence, she senses eternity.
She once believed summers stretched forever, like reflections on the river’s surface, shimmering with deceptive resolve. Now, they flicker momentarily before dissolving into autumn’s embrace, carrying whispers of what was once familiar. Today, she decides to wander the lanes again, to meet remnants discovered only when walked upon.
There are streets paved with secrets, serenading posters peeling from memory’s walls, relics of celebrations now etched into silence. Marisa's footsteps echo softly, a haunting ballad. She crosses paths with shadows of friends forgotten or misplaced by time’s current.
In her hand lies a silver locket, tarnished yet beautiful, nearly indistinguishable from her own story. Inside: two figures, barely recognizable, stare back wearing melancholy smiles. They are strangers now, perhaps, or fragments of an earlier girlhood she barely clings to. Opening it sometimes leads her to unexpected conversations with ghosts of herself.
Walk Towards Glass Lanterns | Whispers in the Hidden Horizon