Daffodils. I heard the word today. Daffodils. And for a moment it did not mean a flower. It meant a room, a season, a version of myself that no longer exists. Strange, how the world allows this. How we lend our hearts to songs, streets, restaurants, cities, books, flowers— and later discover I had mistaken …

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The Sound That Walks on Moonlight Night draped the city in silver. Streets thinned to whispers, and roofs gleamed as if a pale moon had washed them clean. Somewhere beyond the crowded skyline, a voice began to rise. Not loud. Not hurried. A thread of melody that slipped past concrete and glass, gliding over balconies …

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