The other day, while rummaging through an empty drawer, I stumbled upon an intriguing enigma: missing socks. One minute, they were nested comfortably together, and the next, they vanished, leaving behind their solitary counterparts.
It’s always the left one that goes missing. Yet, it’s rarely discovered. In the tumult of stories that fill my life, I feel their echo, a rebellion brewing not against me, but a silent protest with existential roots.
Remember the warmth of worn-out slippers? They held stories in their threads. Tales of warm evenings, accompanied by the musings of an old radio crackling beside an autumn leaved window.
They, the socks, dwell in corridors of warmth and melancholy. Perhaps plotting their next moves across our threadbare carpets. Did you hear them whisper last night?
Murmurs of the Unseen Phantom Footprints