Beneath the flickering streetlight, the cat's eyes glimmer like tiny secrets spilled from an ancient jar. Down the block, someone hums an unfinished tune — it lingers, suspended in the air, waiting for the right words to match its haunting melody.
I once met a man who could fold time like a paper crane. Each crease revealed a hidden past, a whispered future, and he handed these cranes to strangers with a knowing smile. I never saw them fly, but I trust they carried stories on invisible wings.
"It's not about the destination," she said, sipping her tea that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and midnight. "It's the detours that matter. The places you never intended to be, where the universe nudges you into its peculiar pathways."