Ever had one of those days where it feels like shadows talk, but we just can't seem to grasp what they say?
Yeah, over in the garden, I've felt that too, especially in the morning mist.
Footsteps, phantom ones, dance on the periphery of words.
It's the corners of old halls, with the light just pooling right, where stories linger like echoes in a canyon. Weaving in, weaving out, sentences we never finish.
Whispers and glances, the unwritten parts of our stories seem to have tales of their own there.
Ever consider how each room carries its own aroma of conversations?
Like a sweet cologne of words that were or might have been, drifting across time like someone humming a tune we can't place.
We traverse these quiet hallways, among phantoms of sound, practically feeling woven paths under our feet but completely missing the steps.
This curious game we play, dodging and weaving around these spirited breadcrumbs, in our ordinary day-to-day.? But, are they ordinary?
Maybe the corners have the real adventures, hidden in plain sight, waiting for us to pause just a moment longer.
Perhaps one of those days again, we'll linger, listening... to the whispers of who knows what.