In the shadow of an old oak, the leaves mumbled to those who knew how to listen.
"But the coffee was too bitter," and she just smiled and said nothing more.
"There was this one time," he began, but the wind carried the rest away.
Standing there, you can nearly pinpoint the origin of a thought not your own.
"Did you ever find that answer? Or is it still hiding from you?"
The echoes settled into whispers: fragments drifting unnoticed.
"The pen is always missing. Where does it go?"
Memory speaks not in straightforward lines but in tangled roots beneath your feet.
If you strain your ears, perhaps you'll catch the faintest thread of sound, tangled in the canopy above your head.
"It was never about the time, was it? Always about the intent."
Reach into the distant echoes or wander into the hidden words.
Follow the voice to the pathway less traveled or stay with the beginning.