There’s a story held in the dewdrop’s dance, like slivers of yesterday morning latched onto blades of grass. Once upon a whisper, a child spied an echo in a droplet. It shimmered with fragments of color and sound, a lullaby of things never said. What do you see when the light is just right? A face? Or many faces, gone by the blink of an eye?
But shadows yawn wide beneath the sun, secret caves where dreams dare not follow. The echo turned dark, a forgotten melody, and the child laughed nervously. Dewdrops, tiny prisons, holding fragments of forgotten tunes, a dirge unwritten. There's a door in the dew, did you know?