"The whispers of the willow tree, talking in tongues I used to know," she thought, as dew drops fell like forgotten promises on her notebook. There was always a second page. The one that never existed.

Whispers

A train station with no train. Just the echoes of footsteps that never belonged to anyone, yet they felt so familiar. The clock ticks backward, mocking an imagination lost in time.

Echoes

Rain on cobblestones that never gleamed so bright. Their surface mirrored skies of a different shade—ones that brushed past her dreams like an old, tired lullaby.

Mirages