The circle of soft things

The children moved in rhythms she once knew by heart. Their laughter felt like an old echo.

The ground was alive long before anyone realised it. At first, it was just dust rising in the gentle afternoon breeze, a few scattered footprints, and a murmur. Then, like a spark striking dry grass, children gathered, and the entire area breathed. From a distance, the movement appeared random and unplanned, yet it had its own rhythm, formed by habit, memory, and the basic desire to move before being called back inside.