It was late afternoon when the whisper of autumn brushed past the old oak's gnarled fingers.
I remembered your shoes, yellow patterned clouds that faded fast under a dusky sun.
A porcelain cup, etched with delicate crimson flowers, held perfectly still on a table by the window.
In another life, it belonged to a woman with stories inked on her palm.
Reflections danced over the surface of quiet waters, where once a kite dared to soar beyond the limits of tethered dreams.
In the garage, dusty and cluttered, I found an old typewriter, keys tarnished but whispering promises
of words yet to be spoken, a mystery within the confines of rusty relics.