Whispers of footsteps that never happened,
soft dust feathers the wooden floor like powdered snow.
What if we had?
What if we had walked that path?
Opened the door to the rose garden
and sat down to tea, wisps of steam
disappearing from the surfaces of fragile cups
like fleeting moments that never happened,
mere echoes of nothing in a world full of noise.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Scarlatan, in the year 905 AF.