Sometimes, there was a garden, where silence grew in hushed tones. We walked paths of whispers that never began and hardly ended. Behind each word was a promise that lingered like morning mist.
The night spoke in riddles, moonlight casting shadows that felt like déjà vu. You stared at the horizon, looking for fragments of forgotten dreams.
Time is a mirror cracked down its core. Each reflection echoes countless stories. There is a familiarity in the unknown’s embrace—a comfort that pulls at the threads of what once was.
Beneath the stars, we discovered melodies played in reverse. Every note a memory unspooled, each chord struck with precision, threading through the quiet fragments of our lives.