Cicadas sung like an echo of summer afternoons long past. Marigold petals underfoot reminded me of Grandma's garden — a place filled with whispers and stories of sun chasers.

Do you remember the time Devlin whispered about the lost island of Hidden Oasis? We were supposed to find it, you know. With a map drawn on the back of our minds.

Somewhere between dusk and dawn, a clock ticked backward. The attic door creaked open to reveal an old suitcase. Inside, photographs of strangers posed next to a sun-drenched horizon.

They call it Sunlit Fable, a tale forgotten by those who chase the light.

Every year the autumn wind carries whispers of old friends, their laughter fading like a songbird's tune. I clutch your shadow as if it were a beacon guiding me to tomorrow.

Above, the sky remembers, perhaps, a time when it all made sense — when we believed in the Chasing Dream.