Trace

In quiet lanes where footsteps fade,
A trace remains, a whispered shade—
A scent of rain on cobblestones,
A fleeting mark where light has shone.

It lives in ink that stains the page,
In echoes of a bygone age,
In the soft sigh of rustling leaves,
And in the heart that still believes.

So seek the trace, though faint it seems,
A thread that weaves through waking dreams.
For every mark, however slight,
Leaves its own quiet, lasting light.