The sun breaks in lazy rays, much like it did three Wednesdays ago. Was I in this same spot? I can't tell. It's not particularly significant—it never is—but here I am, again.
A grandmother with a millennia of stories in her eyes pushes a cart filled with groceries that echoes the squeak of another cart I once heard, perhaps in a dream, perhaps in reality. It's the kind of sound that seeps through walls and mingles with afternoon tea.
Sometimes, you sit on a bench and the wind carries whispers that feel like déjà vu pressing against your consciousness. There are woven patterns there, immutable, eternal. Like the fleeting words or thoughts caught on the breeze, draping like festive ribbons in still air.
Do you remember the time we walked this road? I think perhaps, you never will. But somehow, I know it by heart. What’s your name, stranger wrapped in familiarity?