Orbs of Origin

In the labyrinthine corridors of our intertwined dreams, the orbs flicker like whispers of forgotten melodies. They hold echoes of your laughter, a sweet symphony that plays on the strings of my solitude.

An afternoon bathed in sepia tones, where every glance was a story untold, every touch a promise. Walking hand in hand, we danced through the fading light, unaware that dusk held its final secret.

Do you remember the orb that glowed by the old sycamore, casting shadows that told tales of faraway places? Follow the whispers, they said, but we chose to stay, rooted in the now, dreaming of what could be.

And as the stars began their silent ascent, I wondered whether the orb's light was a reflection of your soul, flickering against the canvas of eternity.

More than mere memories, the orbs are stories yearning to be told, journeys we take alone, and the lingering scent of dreams that dissolve with the dawn.