In the silent mornings, the water whispers stories of forgotten dreams. The kind you once dared to confess to the moon over a cup of starlight.
You sit by the edge, not quite knowing how the melodies touch the edges of your mind, like vines, silently creating a labyrinth of thoughts, weaving familiar yet foreign patterns in your awareness.
The echoes of your footsteps linger when the breeze carries them away. Do they follow you as shadows do, or vanish with the morning mist?