You ever find yourself tracing those invisible lines? The ones you can't see until you step over them, and suddenly, the ground feels a little different, a little less familiar? I was walking the other day, near the old mill—know the one? The place where shadows seem to hang a bit longer than they should. Anyway, I was thinking about how every step beyond those lines marks the start of another kind of line, the kind we draw in our minds, not in sand or chalk, but in stories and memories.

There was a kid there, with a kite. Bright red against the gray sky. He was running, laughing, like the wind was pulling him into another dimension altogether. And for a moment, I wondered if he could see those lines too, the hidden paths that twist and weave through the world, leading to places we forget, or perhaps places we've never known. Funny thing, isn't it? How some lines disappear when you try to follow them, while others seem to grow more defined the further you go.

You might think this is nonsense, just the ramblings of an old fool. But there’s a truth to it, a quiet sort of reality that hums beneath the surface. Like an echo in a forgotten hall, or the rustle of leaves in a house that’s seen better days. Whisper to the shadows, and they might tell you a story of someone far away, or perhaps of yourself, in another time, another place.