A Silent Morning
This morning, as dawn's first light spilled tenderly over the horizon, I found silence wrapping its arms around me. The only visitors were eagles, soaring in endless circles above a mountain. I could feel the long echo of their calls, retreated to a depth only dreams visit.
"It’s a simple life," she wrote, "with stories etched in the shadows of our routine."
These echoes sit in the grooves of paper, caught mid-breath. On pages crumpled from haste, or left behind on untidy desks, they lie waiting. Each a reflection of unwritten dreams that flicker out like forgotten stars.
"Maybe someday, they’ll find their way back," he murmured, glancing out the train window at the green-hued hills, "across time. Through eons of rusted tracks."