It was a time when the creaking floorboards told stories quieter than whispers. The echoes of laughter long forgotten floated amidst cobwebs and dust-laden books. You could almost hear the ticking of time, as gentle as a moth's wing flapping under fluorescent light.
The strawberries were sweeter back then. Perhaps it was the innocence, or just the humidity of the old summer warmth that twisted around the tendrils of grapevines. They spoke in languages not meant for human ears, murmuring secrets within the clutching shadows of the back garden.
Genevieve often pondered if those days were truly hers or figments of imagination captured from vivid dreams. She would clutch the tiny silver locket beneath layers of fabric worn soft over years, feeling the worn engraving under her thumb.
"Here lies the beginning," she would muse, sipping from a delicate teacup, edges chipped like memories rubbed too frequently. But the beginning of what? She couldn't remember, or perhaps, she dared not.
Leaflets written in scripts she had never learned floated onto the dining table from a world she claimed no knowledge. Yet, something about their weight and texture matched the rhythm of her pulse, matching the beat of someone who might have lived once, somewhere before the clock struck.