In a world wrapped in the familiar aroma of morning coffee and bustling sidewalks, whispers often slip through the cracks. They drift silently, invisibly tracing the edges of shadows, waiting to be caught by those willing to listen.
She stood there, at the corner of Oak and Main, a silhouette against the soft glow of the early sun. Her presence was marked more by what surrounded her than by her form, which seemed blurred and undefined, as if shaped by light unseen.
Casual conversations;
Dockside murmurs;
Laughter lingering over a glass.
They say the wind carries these echoes, etching them into the fabric of the city. Sometimes, the whispers converge, forming a tapestry of stories, incomplete and out of context, yet real and grounding.
Each silhouette cast by invisible light tells a story. Stories of dreams left unspoken, of paths not chosen, of moments paused between breath and sigh. The shadows move with intent, tracing the outlines of whispered truths.
Enter the Echo Beneath the Surface