Sometimes, it whispers first thing in the morning. You hear it half awake, half dreaming,
the echo of a memory you'd thought forgotten. Is it me, or is it you? The question lingers.
Walking through the park, hands tucked in pockets, you feel the breeze carrying voices.
The trees seem to nod in agreement, but you catch only fragments—unspoken truths.
At the edge of a crowded place, you lean against the wall, seeking calm. Thoughts collide,
and there it is: an echo of laughter, perhaps a friend from another life. Do they know?
Evening falls, and silence wraps around like a soft blanket. Your mind drifts, tethered to
the sound of rain. Pitter-patter—a rhythm, a heartbeat, a secret yet to be told.
The door stands closed in a room you seldom visit. Every visit, leaves you questioning,
Will you ever reach through and touch what's beyond? Or is the door just an illusion?