In the half-light of dawn, whispers linger like forgotten syllables on the edge of a dream. Shadows tilt at awkward angles, casting stories written in the dust of your absence.
The street sings a mournful tune, redolent of pale violets and the sigh of autumn leaves, where once we walked, fingers brushing against the tapestry of what might have been.
Do you remember the place where time folds, hiding its face in a veil of laughter and rain? Paths of silver veins trail across the memory, echoing the heartbeat of a world unseen.
There, beneath the lattice of stars and the lantern's soft glow, we left footprints in ink and rhythm, now dusted over in the sighing veil of night.
Each syllable a step further away, each breath, a thread woven into the fabric of minutes lost and moments found— leads to dusk and echoes and a touch remembered.