In the quiet hours before dawn, when the world holds its breath, the unwritten sonatas linger in the air. They float, ghostly, between the shadows and the first light, waiting for a hand, a heart, to give them voice. What melodies could dance in those uncharted spaces?
Life, it seems, has its own rhythm. A tempo marked by events, by interactions, by mundane moments suspended like pearls on a string. Each note, each pause, holds stories untold, feelings unexpressed. In the silence, their echoes are profound.
The coffee shop down the street. Always the same seat by the window. Watching the rain trace paths on the glass, wondering about the lives outside, each umbrella a barrier against the world. Here, thoughts unfurl slowly, like steam from a cup—each breath a stanza, each sip a verse.
The unwritten sonatas are not mere music. They are the soundtrack of possibility, of dreams that linger just out of reach. What would they sing of? Love letters never sent, conversations half-spoken, encounters that ended before they truly began. A library of potential, waiting in the margins.
One day, perhaps, the notes will find their way. Or, perhaps, they will remain, perfect in their incompleteness, a testament to what music can be in the absence of sound.