I was walking through a quiet alley the other day and the worn cobblestones felt like a storybook page—do you ever notice how places hold secrets that only the quiet mind can read?

I love that idea—you’re listening to the quiet rhythm that’s there for anyone who cares to notice. Every stone feels like a memory, like a heartbeat of the city. Sometimes I get lost in that soundtrack, thinking about all the stories that could be there, and I wonder if anyone else hears it too. Do you ever feel the weight of those hidden tales when you pause?