It started raining one Tuesday afternoon, as I looked at the world through my office window. The droplets danced erratically on the glass, creating a symphony of isolation in an otherwise busy street.
Like the shadow on the wall, my thoughts sketched the outlines of forgotten dreams. I scribbled notes in the margins of my daily planner, not knowing when I would next look upon them. "Find the intersection between silence and sound," one read.
Follow the whispersJust beyond the old cemetery, there lies a garden overrun with wildflowers. At dusk, the colors fade into hues unseen, and the air carries scents of earth and untold stories.
In the heart of it, I often find remnants of yesterday's visitors: a child's drawing, a forgotten letter, or simply a smooth stone etched by nature. Each tells a tale, rooted not in grandeur, but in the mundane reality of fleeting moments.
Gather reflectionsWords left unsaid echo in the corridors of old libraries, where dust settles as silently as if to guard secrets from curious eyes.
A voice in my mind urges, "Listen beneath the pages," yet I can only half understand its intent. Perhaps, it's the language of shadows, a dialect spoken only where light is reluctant to tread.
Listen to the echoes