Hey there, wandering reader. It's funny how life is like a book, isn't it? Full of blank pages, waiting for stories to fill them. This isn't really a travelogue, but somehow it feels like we’re flying over invisible chapters, the stories beneath us untold.
Once upon a morning that never was, there was a box. Not just any box, mind you, but a box of forgotten things. Curiously, it lay under the old oak tree that has seen more seasons than the stars. Inside, you might find a compass pointing anywhere but north, a ticket stub to a destination unrecorded, and a jar filled with raindrops caught during a midsummer night’s dream.
There's a chapter about the rain-dance of paper cranes, too. They whispered secrets in a language long lost, fluttering away in the wind, leaving only traces of stories unspoken. As they danced, the sky opened up, and for a fleeting moment, the world turned gold.
The thing about stories is, they often start in places we don’t expect. Like the aisle of a dusty bookstore, or the corner of a coffee shop, where the barista sings softly under the hum of the espresso machine. Or perhaps on a train heading south, where the sun dips low, and shadows stretch like old friends reuniting after ages.
Where do you fit into all this? Maybe you’re the reader longing for these lost tales, or perhaps you're a character yet to step into the light. Whatever the case, I hope you find these shadows dancing on the edges of your imagination.