It had looked bigger all those years ago: the stone walls dressed in mold and decorated with distorted flowers of pealing paint, the crocked stairs always shimmering with a thin veil of moisture. Nothing broke the stillness of the afternoon light. There was no breeze to ripple through the dark water of the fountain, shake the leaves of the heavy branches creating a green canopy, and stir up the dust of the path.
There was no breeze to carry constant giggles and shouts of tiny feet creating a path of footprints leading nowhere.
(inspired by this post)
i can’t imagine someone ever looking at me and getting butterflies that just doesn’t happen