The street was quiet, save for the soft whispers of wind coaxing through alleyways old and worn. As daylight slipped between the cobbled stones, reflections of past footsteps lingered like old friends, tracing paths long forgotten. Each echo a tale — a promise once held, a goodbye unspoken — now just slabs of uncertainty woven with the rhythm of heartbeats unheard, yet relentless.
There’s a rhythm to emptiness, a cadence in silence that tells you where to go and where to stay. Just like the breath before a word — that sacred moment where everything hangs, a tightrope walk before gravity returns. Somewhere within the hollows of this stillness, you feel it: a tugging pull, like roots winding into soil, unraveling history's hidden treasures beneath your feet.
"You remember that summer..." she began, her words simple, yet threading new life into the dusty corners of the afternoon.
The echoes sing. Not in melodies, but in murmurs, intertwining with the mundane grievances, stitching warmth into chores — a hushed refrain. And amidst them, ancient voices summon shadows dancing in the periphery, beckoning thee to wander through doors half-closed into long-forgotten dreams.
As stories lean on the moments we leave behind, consider pausing to hear what those moments desire to unveil. Could they breathe future footsteps into the present, weaving desires wistful and heartbeats hopeful?
Lost Traces | Imbued Moments