“Is it the chair that creaks or the thought that wavers under pressure?" “Maybe—maybe it was a ghost," she said, sipping tea in that twilight space where dreams mix with lingering echoes.
“I once saw a frog wearing glasses," he said, adjusting his own imaginary spectacles. “Ah yes, and it recited Shakespeare under the moonlight," she smiled, flicking invisible dust from her sleeve.
“Did you hear the telephone call from tomorrow?" he asked, setting down his book about forgotten futures. “It's something about yesterday," was the reply, laced with the scent of unsaid words.
In a land of silent echoes, where melodies of phantoms twist and turn, one finds solace in the spaces between notes—echoes of conversations never begun, paths not taken lingering in the ashen air.