Syntactic Symphony

They spoke of locomotives and forgotten forests, where echoes of lost conversations meandered like shadows on a Sunday afternoon.

“What if we never meet again?” she said, gazing into the void, allowing silence to swarm around them, thick like honey.

A mosaic of broken promises rose from the ashes of yesterday's decay. The smell of lavender lingered in the air—comforting yet suffocating.

As he turned the page, he wondered if the ink would ever stop bleeding through his parchment skin, the stories aching beneath the surface.

Nights spent counting stars above, imagining what proximity felt like in a world of distances that stretched beyond mere kilometers.