The overgrown path on the outskirts of town led us once to stories of old,
onde whispers resonated with the crunch of autumn leaves beneath our feet.
Echoes long forgotten.
She stared at the stars with untold hopes, dreams suspended on a tightrope.
An old letter sat in the drawer, ink smudged by time's gentle hand.
Lost despatches of a bygone season.
And in that café by the corner, stories lived, in look, in gesture,
where strangers exchanged silent compacts over steaming mugs.
Unheard conversations.