There was a time when the river spoke softly, its voice drowned out by the tides of change, echoing against the stones. I remember the afternoons spent drifting along its banks, tracing stories in the waves, stories that can no longer remember themselves. Shall we become echoes too? I often wonder as I sit here, listening to the ghosts that rise and fall with the sun.
Nostalgia creeps in, uninvited, wearing a dress made from memories. It spins tales of laughter lost to time, of shadows cast long upon summer fields. Once, there were faces, bright with promises, lost to the current of days that sweep onward. Each ripple a reminder of futures unfurling, futures that never were. The weight of their absence is heavy; it sinks like stones cast into the deep.
As dusk descends, I peer into the mist where the horizon blurs. Do you see it? The line between here and there, now and then growing thin. Voices murmur from another life, brushing against the skin, teasing at recollections that are not altogether mine. Still, I hold them close—that gentle ache of things untold, remnants of a symphony unheard.