The farmhouse door creaked like an admission of forgotten times, where winter's whisper was an echo of worn sweaters unearthed from cedar chests.
In the attic's embrace, among steel-framed echoes of letterboxes unsent, there lay remnants of breathing lives, scattered like raindrops on a sunlit pond.
Photographs, weathered at the edges, unfurled stories in mismatched hues—dreams painted in sepia becoming the tapestry of a mystery unspoken. A child and a kite, perhaps?
Reflections of year denied recommit to defiance, as dreams pile alongside stockpiled deceptions, the untouched peeking in vain.
The silent carousel spins with figures remembered but not familiar, full circles of intertwined lives led to incremental edges in twilight places.