The footprints, dark upon the pale sand, told stories only the wind understood. Their owners long gone, perhaps swept into the embrace of twilight, leaving whispers of laughter and longing behind them.
In the quiet moments, when the sun kissed the horizon, I would trace those steps, each imprint a reminder of what was or could be. The memories clung to the air, sweet as jasmine and as transient as the tide.
Once, beneath the silver moon's glow, they led to a hidden alcove where words flowed like honeyed wine, rich and intoxicating. We spoke of dreams, of stars sewn into the fabric of our destinies.
But as the waves washed over the path, erasing the evidence of our presence, I understood: footprints are a paradox, illusions of permanence in a world that only knows how to begin anew.
Night Symphony