Have you ever fallen into a story that doesn't end? You know, the kind where the pages are just whispers waiting to be heard? I felt like that once in a café in Paris, watching the rain scribble its own tales on the pavement.
There was this chapter, somewhere lost, about a boy chasing echoes in an empty hall. It was never written, yet it lingered like a forgotten melody.
In that chapter, the boy met a girl who collected shadows. She had a laugh that could light up the voids between words. Together, they danced to rhythms only they could hear.
Then there’s the sonnet, unfinished, like an old friend’s letter with no closing. It starts with a question no one asked and dances through lines of half-formed dreams.
What do you think, should we find that chapter? Maybe we could help the boy catch those echoes after all.