The scent of Sunday afternoons intertwined with cinnamon and damp earth. Walking barefoot on grass wrapped in morning dew, I once spilled a secret that tangled in roots beneath the ground.
She said apples were bitten into loneliness, thoughts devouring the heart of each one. Under the tree, I imagined my stride echoing through empty echoes of forgotten conversations.
A rusted swing creaked and sighed—anchored to nothing yet caught somewhere between gravity and kindness. The songs of old summer began and ended there, twisted in loops, fading gently into the orange twilight.
His hands were quiet like roots, still pressed against earth's whispering lies while autumn painted their veins in a foreign language. The tree dreamt silent promises, caught between the tales of those who might’ve sat below.