I found a box hidden beneath the bed,
Filled with the voices of things unsaid.
Yellowed pages with ink turning grey,
Echoes of a girl from a far-off day.
The dust rose up like a ghostly veil,
Telling a story that had grown quite pale.
Promises written in a frantic, young hand,
Of castles built on the shifting sand.
A dried flower fell from a folded crease,
A tiny fragment of a forgotten peace.
Smells of old rain and childhood tea,
Bringing back the version of who I used to be.
The words were simple, the dreams were wide,
Before the world taught us where to hide.
I traced the lines with a trembling touch,
Remembering the friends I loved so much.
Though the ink is fading and the paper is thin,
The warmth of those summers still glows within.
A bridge of paper across the vast years,
Holding the weight of a thousand silent tears.