In a quiet room where shadows play,
A book lies open, worn by the day,
Its pages whisper secrets, old and wise,
But it’s the margins that hold the hidden sighs.

With ink-stained fingers, the reader leans near,
To the edges where thoughts flicker, faint yet clear.
In the scribbled margins, a world intertwines,
A tapestry woven with dreams and designs.

First Note:
"Remember the summer, the breeze in your hair,
The laughter of friends, the sun’s golden glare.
We danced on the grass, barefoot, wild, and free,
Oh, how those moments still linger in me."

Second Note:
"Sometimes I wonder if time’s just a thief,
Stealing our youth, our joy, our belief.
Will we meet again in the twilight of years?
Will we laugh like we did, or will it be tears?"

As the reader wanders through whispers of ink,
Each note a reflection, a heart’s quiet link.
Thoughts spill like secrets, profound and unbound,
In the margins, a life that’s both lost and found.

Third Note:
"Dear friend, I’m sorry for words...