Each creak of the floorboards beneath the weight of memory sends shivers in the air.
The encounters sit heavy on my tongue, faded like old photographs tucked in forgotten drawers. Each story unwritten coils in the shadowy recesses of my mind, whispering with the gentle persistence of a friend whose voice you no longer remember but whose face lingers just out of reach.
The clock ticks, but in reverse.
In nights like these, doubts settle like fog on a quiet lake—reflective, still, speaking truths in vibrations. They haunt every street where footsteps echo alone, where sirens weep for the restless. Life, in its tepid moments, retraces lines drawn on dust-covered windows, searching for paths not taken. So many roads diverging, so many stories unwound, hidden in the folds of time like secrets longing to escape.
Do you see what I see? Ghosts of yesterday scribbling messages in the fading daylight, reminders that the world spins not on what was, but on what could be. Sometimes the past breathes beside me, patient and persistent as if awaiting confession.
Except, no one is here to listen.
Save for you, perhaps. In this eternal exchange of whisps and shadows, there's comfort. An echo of understanding that plays softly, altering the soundtrack of a life half-lived.