Under the dim glow of old street lamps, a solitary figure jots down notes on the sidewalk, but it's not the sidewalk that's real. It's the memories, fragmented and misplaced, that form the path.
In the café across the street, a woman serenades an empty chair. Is it Tuesday or Thursday? Time blurs like the rain on window panes.
Somewhere, a clock chimes thirteen times, echoing against the laughter of ghosts who once danced in the hall that now stands empty, walls whispering secrets.
They said the old library had eyes, watching unseen. I only saw them once, blinked, and they vanished like the last train to nowhere.
Corridor ReveriesThe scent of lavender lingers, a sign that someone once loved this place, or perhaps it's just memory's trick, a phantom observation of what never was.
She remembers his voice, a whisper through the mist, "Meet me where the moon kisses the sea." But the sea is miles away, and the moon, a ghost in the sky.
Forgotten Meanderings