In the gentle hum of the evening, the scent of old books and yellowed paper filled the air. It was a smell that brought with it the soft whisper of voices, echoing through the corners of the room like forgotten friends.
She remembered the way the sunlight danced across the floor, leaving patches of brightness where shadows dared not tread. In those spots, she would often sit, legs crossed, lost in the threads of tales untold, their beginnings just as mysterious as their endings.
Sometimes, she would hear the clock on the mantel tick slowly, its steady beat marking time, yet she would lose herself in thoughts of yesterday or perhaps the next day. Time had a way of folding in on itself, looping back to moments that seemed half-remembered, like fragments of a dream.
And though the room stood empty now, the echoes of those incomplete stories lived on, whispers in the air of lives once lived in the spaces between the words.
Perhaps we will meet again