In this space, time bends softly at its edges, melding familiarity with obscurity. An echo of footsteps on the cobblestones evokes both presence and absence, as if the air itself were thick with memories misremembered.
Are you here again? Or is it merely a reflection—the visage of a moment set adrift, anchored somewhere between now and then? The courtyard waits silently.
Consider the rust-dappled bench: here, a threadbare tapestry of whispers unfolds, woven with hues of yesterday's emotion. A cascade of ivies climbs the sepia walls, braiding patterns known only in dreams.
Beneath the arch, the boundary is drawn—a passage to and from—where pavements once embraced the solemn parade of intent and contemplation. Is the gate a portal, a threshold, or merely a false dawn?
An Echo of Dust