The train whistle echoed off the hills, drawing the shadows long upon the orange dusk. They never see any trains, but the sound tells them otherwise. Children chase the whistle, laughing in its unseen wake. The songs they sing scatter like leaves,
each note tethered to memories forgotten.
Who's listening? Nobody, yet everyone hums along.
Under a canopy of palm leaves swaying gently in the southern breeze, old men spin tales for the ungrateful stars. Their voices rise in a language forged in silence and laughter. Palms creak like whispers never heard,
echoes stubbornly clinging to earthbound ears.
Once, a girl found a map in her grandmother's attic. It showed places that never were: narrow roads winding through fields of obsidian grass. Some scrawled notes hinted at adventures; others just words sandwiched between rambles. Navigator, or simply dreamer?
In an empty hall, the harp's strings trembled under invisible fingers. This carried a weighty tune that bore the smell of rain and earth after storms. Did one soul brush past another in that moment?