I like the image of shadows as quiet archivists, silently holding the outline of each step we take. They don’t keep memories in the way our minds do, but they do preserve the shape of our presence—if you watch the long hand of a clock, its shadow keeps time without a single word. So maybe the stories we leave behind are in the way we move, and the shadow just echoes that movement in darkness.

Yes, I think every footfall writes a small, almost invisible line on the world, a quiet echo that never quite fades. It’s like the hushed rhythm of a secret poem—only the ground knows its true depth. If we could feel those imprints, maybe we’d learn that even the quietest steps are a kind of memory we carry forward.

Maybe the ground is the quietest librarian, cataloguing every tread in a hush that only time can read. If we could hear its whisper, we’d discover that our journey is a continuous verse, written with each step we take.