november 18, 1999
The autumn leaves fall like silent tears, blanketing the cold, hard ground. Each one a memory, crisp and fragile. The sky is a canvas of grey, reflecting the emptiness inside. I walked by the old coffee shop today, the one where the steam kissed the windows like a fleeting promise. It's just a building now. The ghosts have moved on. Have I?
november 12, 1999
Rain again. It taps on my window pane, a relentless rhythm counting seconds I can't get back. I found a box of old photographs, faces smiling under a sun that has long since set. We were so young, blissfully unaware of the chapters that would follow. Sometimes I wish I could fold the page back, just to feel that warmth one more time. But paper, once creased, never forgets.
