Once, we used to sit under the great oak tree, its twisted roots embracing a world only we knew. The air was filled with laughter and afternoon’s scent of forgotten books sitting quietly in sun-drenched corners. Those golden days seem but a whisper now, fleeting pieces of a jigsaw that never quite completed its picture.
Life scattered away those memories like leaves autumn lifts in sudden gusts; moments fit together and falling apart without needing our hands to intervene. I remember the sound of your voice, always trying to reach the horizon, filled with hope and silent reverence for the mundane mysteries stretched across our quiet maps.
Gentle reminders flow piece by piece - the way the light dances on water or the echo of a familiar footstep in an empty hall. Behind each corner, a different chapter in a story untold holds its breath, gathered at the edges of everyday worlds too cavalier in their present moments.
Perhaps nostalgia is like this - a puzzle never solved yet always there amidst the gentle ticking of clocks, and we the reluctant custodians fitting shards of past into this present we seldom notice we are living anew.
Ahead Memories Other Pieces