In the quiet corners of yesterday's echoes, my fingers weave through threads of might-have-beens. Sometimes, late at night, an urge to fiddle with these ghostly taut stringlines comes over me, similar to the reach of a phantom limb.

Do those unseen yet felt motions have a story to tell? In my case, it appears as endless yarns, unwound and propped against reality's fray.

Fabricated Chronicles:

• {A Memory Lost} when whispers washed the stars away.
• Socks left single, lest companions disappear into the mythical.
• A long-prepared meal for one, now three before a single fork.

Observation persists through fingers that don't quite exist. When the need arises, they spin tales far richer than the segments of an untold plot. The dialogue with oneself begins and why pause when a phantom may assist the mainstay?

No epiphanies. Just the gentle tug of yarns, reminding: these constructs are not merely threads - they're remnants from the room of lost limbs, reaching for truth written in unseen ink.