Invisible Lines

Saturday morning, she found a diary in the attic. The first page spoke of a picnic, but came with no details—a broken time capsule of her mother's laughter, overshadowed by an unshed tear.

Shadows danced upon the walls during what should have been a birthday party. A hint of lavender, sweet cake, and the faintest echo of laughter stolen by time’s relentless march, lost between memories and moments.

"You’ll know when you see it," a voice declared timidly. What is “it”? Another layer of connection disguised beyond an invisible line, beyond a durable boundary.