"What color is your memory?" she asked, eyes glazed with the mist of sleep.
"It shifts," he replied, barely above a whisper, as if afraid of waking the silence.

Beneath the old oak tree, shadows danced in ripples.
"Have you ever touched a thought," she continued, "and found it warm like the sun?"

A forgotten train station, echoes of departed dreams linger in the air.
"Beyond the platform," he said, "voices from another time wait for us."