Mosaic of Memories

the whispering echoes of yesterday's rain tapping gently on the roof of a forgotten attic, where shadows dance in the flickering warmth of old lantern light—streaming voices fading into the haze of a winter evening, calling out names that linger just out of reach.

the smell of fresh bread crumbling between fingers stained with ink, a line fragmented by the sudden chirp of a distant train, irregular, persistent—somewhere, a child laughs, a siren wails, and those notes weave into the song of a neon-lit city.

remembering the taste of sweet rebellion on the hot summer pavement, feet kicking up clouds of dust in the fading sun, the horizon blurring the edges of time like an artist too in love with the present to care for the final frame.

sometimes, a sound—a hum, a static crackle—brings back a face, a scene unknown, unplaced, yet intimately familiar, echoing through the corridors of what could have been, or indeed, was.