Upon the gravel road, the silence cracked underfoot. She walked, shoulders hunched against winds that had spun tales of merchants and sky-fish long faded. In her pocket, she kept the song of an old lullaby that seemed to follow her. No words, just notes woven like gossamer threads.
A lone traveler, he swept the horizon with tired eyes. Dust storms lingered just beyond view, restless ghosts of yesterday's storms. His own breeze whispered in cadence, out of sync yet in perfect harmony. He listened, not for names, but for familiarity lost among the echoes.
The night nurse hummed a song that wove between beds and blankets, a cradle in the dim ether of the ward. She moved like a wisp, answering whispered calls from places unseen. Her melody traced soft arcs of time, marking passages like a quiet boat crossing a still twilight lake.
In her dreams, she saw children playing beneath aged boughs, laughter ringing crystal-clear. Yet when she reached them, shadows stretched long, fingers too tangled to touch warmth. Still, the song flowed, a bridge unseen, but strongly felt.