๐๐๐ ๐๐จ๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐ข๐ ๐๐ข๐จ๐ฅ๐ข๐ง, ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ง๐๐ก๐จ๐ฅ๐ข๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ง๐จ | ๐๐ฎ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ง ๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง๐ฌ ๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐๐๐ฌ๐ญ | ๐๐๐ฅ๐๐ฑ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ข๐
ะััะฐะฒะบะฐ
- ะะฟัะฑะปัะบะพะฒะฐะฝะพ 22 ะปะธั 2024
๐๐ฎ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ง ๐๐๐๐ฅ๐๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง๐ฌ ๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ๐๐ง๐ญ ๐๐๐ฌ๐ญ
The rain fell in steady, rhythmic sheets, drumming softly against the stone path that led to the mansion. Drops cascaded from the dark branches of the old oak, whose gnarled trunk still held the remnants of the small treehouse, now weathered with time. The golden-orange leaves of autumn danced in the wind, some clinging desperately to their branches while others swirled in slow circles down to the wet ground. The mansion, grand and stately, stood against the misty backdrop of the forest, its windows glowing with a dim, melancholic light, like a memory half-forgotten.
Inside, sitting by the large bay window, an elderly woman watched the rain through glass blurred with mist. Her eyes, pale but still bright with thought, wandered to the old oak tree and the little treehouse nestled in its arms. It still stood-though fragile now, much like her. She had played there once, long ago, in a world that felt so far away it could have belonged to another life.
Her name was Eliza, though few called her by it anymore. She had outlived most who had known her in her youth. As she gazed out, the years seemed to roll back with the autumn fog, and she found herself drifting into the past-into those golden days when the world felt full of promise and laughter.
The treehouse had been her sanctuary, her palace. She had built it with her friends, when they were young and full of dreams. Every day after school, they would run across the lawn, their feet kicking up the fallen leaves as they scrambled up the winding steps, breathless with excitement. The small wooden house had been their secret world-a place of adventure and wild stories. It was where they planned their grandest schemes and where, more often than not, they simply sat and talked, letting the hours drift by.
She remembered Anna, her best friend, who would always bring her sketchbook and draw the trees and sky. James, the mischievous boy who always dared them to climb higher, laugh louder, dream bigger. And then there was Tom, who, though quiet, had a way of making them all feel safe.
They had grown up together, in a world framed by the brilliant colors of autumn and the ever-present sound of rain tapping on the roof. Those days were fleeting, though they hadnโt known it then. They had believed that the treehouse-and their friendship-would last forever.
But the years slipped by, and one by one, life carried them away. Anna moved to the city to pursue her art, James enlisted and never returned from a distant war, and Tom-Tom, who had once promised to always stay-had fallen ill and was gone before she could even say goodbye.
Now, the treehouse stood silent, abandoned like so many of her memories. The laughter had faded, the voices stilled. She had stayed behind, watching as the seasons passed, each autumn reminding her of what she had lost. The rain continued to fall, as it always had, but now it felt heavier-more like a burden than a comfort.
A deep loneliness filled her as she sat in the grand, empty mansion. Once, it had been filled with life, with the warmth of family and friends. But now, it was quiet, save for the whisper of the wind and the soft patter of the rain against the windows. She had grown old in this house, watching as the world outside changed, but the memories of that treehouse never faded. They remained, frozen in time, like the leaves that clung to the old oak despite the coming winter.
She closed her eyes and could almost hear the echoes of her friendsโ laughter, carried by the wind. She imagined herself once again climbing the spiral stairs to the treehouse, where Anna was waiting with her sketchbook, James with his daring grin, and Tom, offering his quiet smile. For a moment, she wasnโt an old woman sitting alone in a too-big house-she was Eliza, the girl who believed in forever, lost in the warmth of friendship.
But when she opened her eyes, the house was empty, and the rain continued to fall, as relentless as the passage of time.
She sighed softly and pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders. The treehouse would soon crumble, just as her memories would, but for now, it still stood. And so, as the autumn wind sighed through the trees, she allowed herself to remember-not with sadness, but with a quiet, bittersweet joy.
The past may have been distant, but on rainy autumn days like this, it felt as close as the whisper of the wind. Autumn reflections-the memories of a time long gone, but never truly lost.
Love this
The music is magical and the picture is mysterious
ูู ู ูุชูู ุฑูุนุฉ ุชุญุณ ุจุฃูู ูู ุนุงูู ุขุฎุฑ โค
โคโคโคโคโคโคโคโคโค
And what is the sum of memories good for , so that all life experiences enrich our inner spiritual world, which brings us ever closer to attaining our spirit ๐ค