In the corridor of yesterdays, where time folds like an aged letter, I walk alone. Each step stirs echoes in dust, laying bare the ghosts of forgotten moments. The walls murmur secrets not meant for me, their voices soft yet insistent, like the hum of a distant memory yearning to be known.
I pause, my hand brushing against the cool stone, and feel the trembling pulse of history. There is a comfort in this silence, an embrace of solitude that speaks of journeys unfinished. Here, the past is not a burden but a gentle companion, guiding my hesitant steps through the corridors of self.
Once, I believed I belonged to a certain narrative, woven with the threads of expectation and conformity. Yet, these walls whisper otherwise, unraveling the tapestry to reveal a more intricate design, one of possibilities and paths untaken, of voices that echo in dreams rather than waking life.