Remember when, back in '42, the wind would whistle through the alleyways just right? It sounded like the old jazz tunes we’d hear on radio waves crackling with static. Sometimes I wonder if that sound still exists, or if it’s just me, lost in memories.
They say time bends, especially where the corners of the universe fray. Like an old vinyl record playing softly in the background, some tunes are always out of sync, yet they feel familiar and oddly comforting.
The marketplace was never this empty, or was it? Stall owners would holler about fresh fruits and spices that tinged the air with unknown flavors. I can almost taste the cinnamon dust hanging in the morning light.
Do you remember the stories of the girl who could speak to shadows? They say she’d sit by the fountain, her eyes reflecting a world unseen, whispering secrets only she could understand.