I remember the way the sun hit the pavement on hot, languid afternoons. My bicycle squeaked louder than the cicadas. There was a patch of lilies by the old oak, unnoticed by most. Did I ever tell you about that?

The smell of fresh bread in the village baker's shop, mingled with the scent of wood and varnish from the nearby carpentry. Grandma used to say, "Nothing warms the heart like good bread," as we sat by the window counting passerby.

Late-night talks around the campfire, when the air was crisp, and stars felt within reach. My childhood friend spoke of adventures in lands far away, tales woven from whispers of a restless imagination.