It was yesterday, perhaps, or a shape that matches only at dusk, when shadows began to whisper. Between the cobblestones and the scattered leaves, a gentle echo hums of laughter long extinguished, yet lingering.
There was a bench, wasn't there? The one painted blue, peeling under the robust siege of time. And a woman in a hat that tilted like a trustful lie. She never spoke, but the sun was her anchor, and she held it fine.
Remember the fountain? It danced like it had heard a joke only water could understand. Around it, a circle of pigeons planned never to meet again—perhaps dreaming of the open skies beyond the stars.
Reflections ripple beneath the stone's surface. Hazy figures anticipate long after they've passed. Echoes of footsteps, respective to person but not to place, prove solitude can be crowded, tangled willingly with the tide.
Within the whispering pavilion: Whispering Echo | The Cobblestone Affair