Feathers carried upon invisible currents, a whisper kissed by autumn's breath, talked of the moments where time was less stranger. In an empty room, where shadows stretch and lean against the forgotten walls, there lay a quilt of echoes, woven not of thread but of memory itself.
Once, it was filled with voices, laughter revolving, weaving tapestries across the canvas of silence. Each thread was a story—a child’s wonder washed out to a glow of understanding; a lover's promise, caught like fireflies in a jar; the gentle murmur of time itself. Yet, now just stirred by the eerie symphony of wind, that ever-elusive partner in tales unspoken.
She came back to the space, feet tracing their way over relics only known to her, her presence a flicker in the dark. The air around her cradled these void rhythms, caressed their surface as if painting them anew. Each step echoed, forming a curious dialogue, a debate of sorts with the emptiness, posing questions only answered by the steady thrum of solitude.
Outside, the wind gathered stories of its own, scouring the earthly corners for secrets untold, collecting whispers in its capricious dance. And as she lingered there, the story of wind and the woman intertwined—a dance of breath and patience, of space and earth, held forever in the silent space of the room they both knew so well.
Chase a figment