Fragments of life, scattered like pieces of mirror, reflect stories untold, whispers unheard.
He wondered, as one does at ungodly hours, if socks had feelings. Did the left sock pine for its counterpart, feeling incomplete without a toe to cuddle? The store was an orphanage of abandon, charity bins like motherly arms, ready to embrace the lost.
Timothy, the once passionate gardener, swore he heard his plants argue over the best angles to catch the sun. They had competitive spirits, these rogue rose bushes. And was that a hint of jealousy in the vine's reach?
Linda's cat sat in the shade of a philosophical dilemma, pondering the meaning of the universe or possibly its next meal. Some say cats are secretive sages, others, just hungry. The truth lies somewhere between a purr and a yawn.