In the twilight where shadows play, whispers of yesteryear dance upon the edges of perception.
Once I walked through corridors of time, the air thick with fragments of unspoken words, floating like autumn leaves in the hazy sun. The paths ahead twist and curl, inviting me to rediscover the echoes of what might have been.
Do you remember the sound of rain on tin roofs, a lullaby sung by the sky? Each drop a memory falling softly, cascading into a river of dreams. Follow the stream to where reality blurs into a distant haze.
In the gallery of shadows, portraits of laughter cease to exist, yet their essence lingers. Walk further, and you may find traces of their mirth in the dust motes suspended in light.
Mirage, or memory, or perhaps a mirage of memory. The lines blur, as they always do, in the soft embrace of twilight.