In the quiet hours of the evening, when shadows stretched their talons across the abandoned landscape, whispers began to weave their tales. Forgotten were the names of the places described, lost in a mist thicker than twilight.
Is there not some certainty in these winds? they question. Is certainty a mirror without reflection, or is oblivion a friend with whom we have grown too familiar?
Once there were roads, are there still? Beneath the stories, they tell, the paths we have not taken lie like bones buried under fresh soil.
She asked of chances not taken, asked for places hidden beneath the galaxies, trembling between the lost stitches of fabric, the forgotten threads.
The clock on the mantle, though eroded by the embrace of time, still whispered—ticking, ticking, softly—a metronome counting moments slipping through fingers like grains of sand. Was there a price to be paid for silence?
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