Scattered Fragments

He awoke to silence. The kind that stretches across the horizon, calling out in muted waves. The hand that was not there reached for a touch of yesterday, yet all it grasped was the echo of absence.

"Do you feel it still?" they asked the void. A question as hollow as the space it sought to fill. And in that emptiness, whispers of forgotten journeys wound around the heart like a vine.

In a small room painted with dusk, old dreams flutter like moths against the windowpane. They long for stories to fill the forgotten spaces—

Once, there was a glove. Patterned in faded crimson, it wore the years with a becoming grace. Somewhere, it still waits for its missing counterpart.

Beside the lake where reflections converged as one, they lingered upon the ancient stones as if sharing secrets with the water below.

"Does this belong to you?" the voice asked softly, holding up a key without a door.

Time erodes the sharpness of memory. What remains are silhouettes waiting to be traced into something whole. They are nothing more than shadows in the shape of dreams, fled in daylight.

The voyage continues in cycles, spiraling inward. What lies at the center but an impolite reminder? A phantom limb reminding one of a life almost lived.