They say paths have meaning. A winding road might weave stories, while a straight one suggests purpose.
In the quiet hours, flickering fires, and empty diners, the echoes vary. I recall faces that once meant something, but here, they are just shadows cast by a passing breeze.
"I found myself on this road," I once told a stranger over coffee that tasted like it had time-travelled from yesterday. Yet, where was this self? A collection of stories and the dust of too many untaken roads?
Touch the mirror to see what isn't there anymore:
The answers are perhaps somewhere hidden, buried under layers of choices made and unmade. In a fast-paced world, I find solace in the silence of pathless places.