In the heart of every labyrinth lies a garden, forgotten and overgrown, where the scents of our childhood still linger. Here, in the crevices of memory, lives the taste of home, woven into the fabric of time.
Do you remember the cinnamon sprinkled on toast, each flake finding its way into carefree mornings, mixing with laughter like distant echoes? Or the honeycomb crunch, sweet and golden, shared under sunlit afternoons?
These are the silent whispers of the places we once journeyed through, paths lined with flavors we have since lost, trailing behind footprints of moments suspended in nostalgia.