The aroma of sandalwood lingers on the memory of that forgotten summer, mingling with echoes of laughter
from the neighboring abyss. Did it rain that afternoon when time slipped through our fingers like grains of sand?
I saw the red bicycle, rusting in the corner of an old photograph, its spokes tangled in whispered dreams of adventure
and trepidation. The streets were ours, or perhaps the world had drawn its imaginary lines across our innocence.
There were stories about the archway in the library, they said it opened portals to other lives
lived in parallel. I touched its surface once, and the air shimmered like the surface of a distant sea.