Her voice, a fleeting cascade through the gossamer veil. What is love if not an ocean's mirror? The rhythm of chance, the dance they never meant to master. Each heartbeat in disarray, a symphony gone astray.
He wondered, in the delirium of twilight, if she ever noticed the way stars fell, mimicking the forgotten kisses on her brow. And the streets, oh those streets, murmured secrets only the fog could understand, embracing her in its cool fingers.
This is no ballet, his despair whispered. It is a song sung in reverse, a waltz of shadows beneath the ancient willow. And yet, amidst chaos, the harmonies linger on the cusp of eternity—a melody, their gossamer entente.
whispered echoes