He held the morning coffee, the steam whispering secrets as it curled, but the whispers evaporated just like that. Seconds ticked by, each more precious yet elusive than the last.
The circle divided, like choices ahead, but which path casts the shadow?
People passing. Faces fading. Stories unwritten. He was there, then he wasn't, and it made no sense but it rarely does anyway.
In the dim light of old street lamps, whispers of forgotten conversations echoed. "Did you hear the news?" "It's not what you think."
In another world, perhaps, the clock ran backwards. Or forwards. Or stopped entirely in the stillness of a waiting room.
Echoes thrumming through empty corridors of memory, searching for a place to settle. Searching but never finding, because that's just how it goes.