In the quiet stillness of the early morning, the air is punctuated only by the soft rustle of trees. This silence carries stories—fractured tales that linger on the threshold of forgotten doorways. They murmur of lives intersected, paths diverged, choices made in tentative hope.
Somewhere in that breeze is the echo of an old saying—"Home is where the heart aches." A sentiment that clings to those who've wandered too far from the familiar. It's the ache felt in deserted hallways and darkened rooms, where the ghosts of what might have been linger close.
There are doorways we all hold dear, invisible portals that lead to memories wrapped in sunlight and shadows. Each doorway bears the weight of unseen echoes, the soft footsteps of moments that slipped through the cracks.