Have we reached the end? In whispers long untold, the tapestry of our path unfurls before us. Each step, a silent draw on the canvas of time, mirrors the rhythm of hearts beating in quiet solitude.
In the margins, stories of old percolate—forgotten doodles of dreams upon the parchment of existence, left by hands both weary and wise.
Here lies the question, not of arrival, but of becoming. Are we echoes of the past, or shadows of tomorrow? The end is but a thin veil, see-through and fragile, revealing more than what is left behind.