In the silence between thoughts, there lies a trace of nostalgia. The lingering scent of warm rain, the quiet rustle of leaves, an echo of forgotten laughter.
"Do you remember when..." she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid the words might shatter the calm.
The heart beats in rhythm with memories, each pulse a recollection, a fragment of what has been. Sometimes, it aches with the weight of things left unsaid.
Among the shadows of consciousness, memories weave intricate patterns, a tapestry of time. Here, light speaks in tender hues, where the reflectors of existence gather.
Listen closely, and you might hear the whispers of those who walked the same paths before you, footprints fading into the mist of timelessness.