The canvas breathes beneath layers of forgotten words, waking only to the touch of a whisper. Echoes of yesterday's ink drift through the air, tracing patterns in the ether.
People pass, their stories stitched into the fabric of this painted winter. Wagons creak, tires hiss over puddles, murmur murmurs in their tracks.
Lightwaves will dance on the horizon, the promise of tomorrow's tales, while this canvas holds onto the now.