The Labyrinth of Recurring Echoes

The soft luminescence spills across the cobbled floor, revealing patterns not sinuous yet familiar, etched with the relics of whispered secrets.

Here, amidst twilight's embrace, origins unravel — not born, but nested. Shadows dance beneath the craggy arches, flickering like thoughts upon the precipice of consciousness.

Have they always lingered here, these echoes of beginnings? Or are we but architects of our own dissonance, piling the bricks of recollection until the towers obscure the stars?

A rustle I cannot locate, a wideness — a gaping maw? — in the fabric; the instant flash of truth that is not yet, that was never, but could be.