The garden lay quiet, like an unspoken word lingering on the tip of the tongue. It was here, among the fading lilies, where she once announced that days are. On the wind, an echo of laughter, perhaps, but no time remains to chase shadows that seemed to dance, just beyond the edge of memory.
There was a road, winding and obscure, a path walked by voices unseen. They spoke of journeys beginning with a single step, yet forgot the final destination was never the goal. Often, it is the moments between the beginning and the wandering that paint the landscape of one's soul.
I stumbled upon an old song in a dusty bookstore, the notes fading like the ink on yellowed pages. Its melody was haunting, brushing against the edges of known. There is something comforting in the familiarity of the unknown, like seeing a long-lost friend in a crowd, their face blurred by time and space.