In the quiet corners of the mind, words slumber like gentle tides. They crest and fall but seldom breach the surface of waking thought. Here, they weave along forgotten paths, whispering through shadows.
"Can you hear them?" she murmured, tracing invisible lines in the air.
With each breath, the echo of those sleeping words stirs. It's a language of the unspoken moments, the pauses in-between spoken sentences, where thoughts drift like autumn leaves on a tranquil pond.
Dreams, perhaps, are the translations of this silent speech — fragments of a conversation with oneself, where understanding often lingers just beyond grasp.