There is a point where memories forget themselves beneath the rippling water of an eternal spring. Trees stretch their fingers toward the horizon, yearning for touch.
“Time is a circle,” she whispered. The breeze caught her words, spinning them into dizzied echoes. He nodded, not understanding but drawn into the orbit of her uncertainty.
In the haze of stories half-told, people tread softly as if walking atop a frozen lake. Each step reverberates into eternity, and with every echo, a lost word is recorded in the annals of willow wisdom.
She had a habit of tracing invisible lines in the air as if she could map the invisible web of their fates. Her fingers danced to a melody only they could hear, a curious serenade of unapologetic truths tangled in lies.
Upon the old stone bench, two figures etched in the soft warmth of the sun discussed things better left unsaid, their voices mingling with the rustle of the willow branches.
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