The garden, under the cover of twilight, breathes a sigh—a sound so soft that only the attentive hear it. It is as if the night is painting invisible strokes on the canvas of reality, creating a world just out of reach but undeniably present.
"Did you hear about the old man at the edge of town?" she asked, her voice barely above a murmur, as if speaking too loud might shatter the delicate atmosphere. "They say he knows secrets... whispers more than the wind carries."
The path ahead twisted gently, illuminated by the dim glow of the street lamps. They flickered in response to the night's breath, casting shadows that danced like memories half-remembered.
Echoes of Yesterday