In the quiet moments between breaths, where the clouds hesitate before the sun's gentle touch, lies a canvas woven with whispers. I often wonder at the stories etched in vapors, drifting slowly, enduring the scrutiny of time.
The echoes don't whisper anymore; they resonate through blank walls. A conversation with the inevitable unnoticed, perhaps. These reverberations are not spoken— they're felt, lingering long after the footfalls have faded. They stretch like the horizon, tangible yet unreachable.
Do the skies ever tire of their own tales? Endless patterns playing out, indistinguishable from one another unless one dares to listen closely, to engage quietly with the muted colors at dusk.
Listen. It's in those fragments left unattended in the corners of our minds. The faintest echo from an empty auditorium where dreams are born at night, silently crashing against the reality of morning.
Your footfalls are there, splintering the sleek surface of memories, painting shadows in real-time. Maybe it isn't solitude you fear, but silence—a deceptive lull that promises the return of those fleeting echoes.