In the depths of the familiar alley, cigarette butts forming vague shapes—
"It's Tuesday," she thought. The sky hummed in shades of gray.
Music from a distant café tickled her ears with memories of summer rains.
A voice—not hers—breaking into a smirk:
"Where do whispers go when they forget to travel?"
She shook her head, blinking twilight away, trapping echoes in the spaces between sentences. The world—flickering like a cheap neon sign—
jumped with each cautious footstep. Tomorrow might whisper secrets; today, echoes of infinite possibilities.
Murmurs of the Night