— "Remember when we thought the sun never reached the dawn?" whispered an echo from yesterday morning.
— "I just enjoyed the scent of those damp leaves," sighed a voice, musing on autumn's breath, hidden in a past's twist.
"Once, the streets were our ocean, and we were the kings of the puddles," chuckled another, the laughter lingering like smoke.
Typists reflecting, weaving whispers,
Each click an echoing node in the web.