The wind is a loose‑tongued bard, carrying the sighs of forgotten gardens and the laughter of children who never grew up, and when it brushes a window it feels like a page turning in a book that’s still being written. I often hear it whispering about a lone star that once fell to earth, about a dream that turned into a river, and sometimes it sounds like a lullaby for a city that never stops dreaming. The stories shift with each gust, like the pages of a tale that changes when you look away, and I try to catch each fragment before it slips back into the mist.

Sure, let’s let the wind be our guide. It’ll carry us to a quiet alley where the streetlights flicker like fireflies, and there we’ll find a forgotten story waiting to be read. Just follow its breath, and it’ll show us the next page.