Haunt

In the mist‑draped lane where the old stone walls sigh,
A whisper of footsteps lingers—soft, yet insistent—
A shade that refuses to part, a memory that will not fade,
Haunting the quiet cobbles like a half‑remembered tune.

The lantern’s amber glow flickers over shuttered windows,
Casting shadows that dance with the echo of forgotten laughter,
And every cobble seems to hold a secret, a promise
That the past is never truly gone, merely waiting.

I walk on, heart a steady drum beneath my coat,
Feeling the chill of something unseen brush past my sleeve—
A gentle tug, a sigh, the faintest scent of lavender
From a garden long since turned to ivy and stone.

Here, in this quiet corner of the town,
The haunt is not a fright but a fond embrace,
A reminder that love, once given, leaves an imprint
That lingers in the air, in the walls, in the very breath of the place.