The quiet has a sound, they say, a soft rustle of memories gathering like autumn leaves. I heard it once, beneath the hum of existence, a symphony of silences weaving through time. Echoes, fleeting whispers of what was, or what could be—filling the empty spaces like ghosts of stories untold.
In the stillness, when the world pauses for a breath, these whispers linger—a melody of nostalgia, a sigh of yesteryears. Do you remember? The laughter hidden in shadows, the warmth of words spoken in twilight. They dance around like forgotten specters, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a solemn nod.
On days like this, the air is thick with unspoken dreams, hanging like dew on the edge of dawn. I listen, not to the sounds of life, but to the echoes of silence, speaking in a language only the heart understands. And in these moments, I am both lost and found, wandering through the corridors of memory.