Whispers Of Forgotten Days

the golden glow of a low fire danced against the shadows, casting the room in a gentle warmth. The scent of la

love, hovered above the manuscript as if uncertain whether to touch it. Each word on the paper carried a piece of him-moments, letters, a

n gentle waves, meeting the horizon where mist clung like a veil. It was a view Elias knew well, though its beauty nev

pen in hand, his expression open and hopeful. That boy had been so certain of the stories he wanted to tell, t

decades, its pages yellowed and edges worn. But here, in the solitude of the cottage, the words seemed to breathe. They whispere

e ground. Elias watched them fall, their motion unhurried, their descent inevi

the silence, "it's not t