Reflections on Perspective

The street was empty this early, just the sound of distant engines and the soft rustle of leaves. She thought about the morning dew on blades of grass, oddly comforting next to the blur of office lights.

Worn benches became repositories of stories. He sat, reflecting on the layers of dust on books unopened, conversations whispered between pages. Libraries weren't built for silence, he mused.

Cafes held echoes of plates clinking, laughter diffusing like steam in the air. They shared a table, strangers once, now part of an unspoken agreement permeated by coffee aroma.

The moon hung low that night, casting silver paths on water's surface. It reminded her of absent friends and unsent letters floating in the dark, tethered only by thoughts.