The trail meanders softly under puddles gathering sea-like, beneath the brooding sky. Each drop is a note in a timeless rain song, echoing on the leaves of ancient trees. Have you ever listened? I mean, really listened?
Along the way, a forgotten glove lies, crumpled like a handwritten letter left unsent. Did it belong to a child in the meadow on a day too warm for a fade to cool evenings? Perhaps someone runs after it, shouting through the soft drumming of rain.
Echoes linger here, sculpted by wind and water. Conversations once shared, under eaves or in whispers among the trees, now part of the landscape’s storied silence. We find ourselves in these places, even when not looking for them.