In the kettle's womb, the water murmurs a tale of sleep and bubbling promise, an anticipation of release without an audience. Time stirs like a timid ghost, circling edges softened by warmth, whispering forgotten hymns.
Stars spin a tapestry above the kitchen, secluded from the world's relentless pulse. Here, the heart of the house beats a slower rhythm — a lullaby in simmered solitude. When struck, the kettle sings not just to boil but to cradle silence into steam.
Each bubble, an echo, a thought gently freed, a spark of light suspended in the watery abyss. And as they rise, we wonder: what dreams they carry to the surface, only to vanish, bursting before the air can grasp them?
Raindrops etch their own riddles against the window, a code for only those who dare listen with heart unguarded. It speaks of seasons turning quietly, as life wraps itself in the stories of the unwritten and the unsaid.
Return to the EchoesReflect: