Whispers

The sun was setting, casting an amber glow over the street as I waited on the worn wooden bench at the bus stop. My eyes were drifting along the cracks in the pavement when I noticed someone sitting down beside me. I glanced over—a stranger, with eyes that seemed to hold storms and secrets, their face lined with stories untold.

They leaned slightly toward me, hands resting on a notebook. "I have a story to tell," they murmured, voice low and rough, like a page torn from a forgotten book.