The screen flickers with visions of frozen autumn whispers, yellow leaves dancing our final tango along the boulevard. They chase the skittering afternoons, skipping over crackling pavements, painting echoes of distant laughter she died loving.

In the spectral glow, your blurry reflection intertwines with shadows of serrated memories—jaw clenched, smile askance. This room where ghosts tangle our names beneath weary beds, woven into the dust motes that linger in hesitant light.

Behind the cracked screen waits a fractured echo. It remembers a voice like rain whispered through tangled hedges. The horizon bled orange and scarlet, but the sky remained obstinately cerulean, reckoning against the horizon’s eventual surrender.