Whispers of the Unseen

It's odd how the scent of lavender still lingers, threaded through time like an old scarf forgotten on a train. Sometimes, the lavender is accompanied by apples, creeping in from some distant orchard. Do you remember the orchard, or is it the orchard remembering you?

Murmurs of a conversation echo in the distance, words half-formed, meanings obscured. It's like listening to a radio that’s never fully tuned in. All you catch is the static, where voices become a melody in their own right, dancing around the syllables you can't grasp but somehow understand.

Once I met a stranger on a path paved with the reminiscences of dreams. She wore boots that clinked with stories left unsaid and a coat made of the midnight sky. "Follow the stars in the pavement," she said, her voice a brush against my soul.

Shadows cast by flickering streetlamps become canvases for the midnight wanderer, tracing lines of forgotten prose across sidewalks. Each step writes a poem, each sigh a stanza, whispering the remnants of long-lost novels that never really existed, yet here they are, alive in a world just beyond the veil.