Somewhere in the gentle twilight, whispers come undone. The echoes murmur, speaking secrets of forgotten steps, of paths half-taken.
Do you remember the falling leaves? The rasping sound as they crunched beneath hesitant feet. Again. Again. Again. The world in sepia tones.
Echoes and murmurs. Always half taken, never whole. Shadows fade, but the whispers remain.
The hands of clocks seem to pause, lingering. The past, a tapestry of moments, woven silently. Still. Static. Repeating.
Look closer. Hear them. The whispers. The echoes. They call. They linger. They hum a restorative tune.