There's this place, you know, where sunlit afternoons turn into whispered echoes of dreams long forgotten. You could almost hear the shadows laughing, if shadows had such a thing, at the edges of your memory.
Sometimes, I just sit there on the crumbling steps of the old chapel, watching the light dance through the broken stained glass. It feels like... like time is just a kind of fog, rolling over everything until the details get fuzzy and the edges blur.
Do you remember the stories we used to tell, sitting by the fire while the wind played tricks on the trees? Stories about adventures that never were, but felt so real they could have been our own. I think those stories have a life of their own, wandering through the night and finding their way into dreams.
And here’s the strange part: sometimes, the whispers in the wind sound like those stories, like echoes of a different world where we chose paths we never even knew existed. Paths that might lead somewhere, or nowhere, or... who knows?
Find your own whispers: