Whispered Tales

"Did you know," she said, almost conspiratorially, as they waited for their coffee in the dim light of the café, "that the streetlamp outside my kitchen flickers a greeting every time I open the window?" Her friend nodded, though the truth lay in the uncertain horizon of their conversations.

Paths often crossed under similar lamps, yet their shadows danced differently on this night. ...and through that door, into the otherworldly garden.

"How about a trip?" he asked, fingers drumming patterns of anticipation on the tabletop. The barista rolled her eyes, pretending to wipe the counter but listening intently.

Their journeys were seldom planned or legitimate, more like idle whispers turned echoing footsteps upon cobblestone dreams. There was always a bus route connecting hidden stars.