Lurking in the absence of sound, a whisper cascades through memories long forgotten.
Echoes of laughter, now silenced, linger in the corridors of yesterday.
Imagine the dew kissing the petals of petals wilting too soon, a fleeting promise
of spring that never quite returns.
There was a time when shadows danced freely upon the walls of our imagination,
casting silhouettes of dreams too fragile to hold.
A child's voice, echoing a nursery rhyme, weaves through the tapestry of quiet,
stitched with hues of melancholy.
Time, ever the patient thief, has stolen those whispers, fragment by fragment,
leaving behind the scent of nostalgia, bitter yet sweet.