Rhythm Observed

The clock ticks in intervals, not of time, but of secrets whispered between shadows. It knows your name, it remembers the rain.

"Do you hear it too?" They asked, fingers dancing upon the surface of a memory, its texture smooth like ice.

In the space between heartbeats, there lies a universe untouched by light. Stars spin in silence, awaiting their soliloquy.

"I see the colour of your thoughts," the stranger said while studying the contours of forgotten dreams.

The garden is alive at night, singing songs only the moon can understand, a lullaby for those who dare to listen.

Deep inside the forest's breath, there exists a rhythm, an echo of a world we traded for warmth and fleeting constellations.

"What did you observe?" The question hung in the air, dense and electric, a challenge more than a curiosity.

Memories woven through the sound of falling leaves, crafting a tapestry in which each thread is a forgotten word.

As the dawn breaks, the rhythms pulse weaker, hiding until the stars relinquish their dominion over the night.

The final ticks echo in the void, a farewell from the clock, a promise to return when the world forgets again.