The Whispering Pages

I remember the days when the clock ticked backwards and the sun set in the east. The streets were familiar, like the lines of a friend's face, yet strangely distorted. Shadows danced along cobblestones, whispering secrets only they could understand.

Conversations echoed in my mind—snippets of laughter, the rustle of silk dresses, a child's song fading into the dusk. I press my palms against the cool window, longing to step through the glass into another time.

Perhaps the next door will lead somewhere different. Somewhere where sound carves space like a sculptor with a chisel. I tell myself to breathe, savoring fragmented memories, halting illusions, a kaleidoscope of the unreal and almost-real.

More paths to tread: