The room was empty, save for the solitary chair and a table holding a pack of unplayed melodies. Dust danced under the slanting sunlight, illuminating particles as transient as inspiration itself.
"Remember the tune, the one that never was?" she whispered, but the void answered only with silence, the kind that echoes when no sound is present.
He picked up the guitar, strings cold and indifferent. The chords were there, locked away. Each note a fleeting touch, a memory of melodies lost to time. Somewhere in the air, a hum resonated, a ghost of a song waiting to be played.
Life's rhythm had its own tune, but it wasn't written in the stars. It was found in the mundane, the repetitive notes of heartbeats and footsteps on the pavement.
Have you ever tasted silence? The kind that blankets everything, shaping the landscape of sound into shadows?