In the town square, under the old clock tower, the whispers begin. Bits of conversations, half-finished thoughts clinging to the air like autumn leaves. Each word, an unsung note in a symphony of silence. Listen closely, and you might hear:
The baker's secret recipe murmured between kneads of dough, the clank of tools in the mechanic's shed, the laughter of children chasing shadows as the day wanes, and the gentle rustle of worn books on the librarian's desk, pages turning like a heartbeat.
"The songs of the unsung, are just echoes of the hungering," she said, eyes distant, gaze lost in tomorrow's fog.
When the sun sets, darker songs rise. Rumors of dreams shared in hushed tones, of plans laid beneath stars with the weight of worlds. These, too, find their way into the song, blending into the infinite melody of the night.