The dim light flickers as if unsure of its purpose, accents of brass-colored voices echo softly in the corners of synthetic silence. An old manuscript, forgotten on the shelf, hums strangely in a language as pale as moonlight.
Here, the stories form like wisps of cloud, their breath tangible yet untouchable. Each one, a ghostly note in the symphony of solitude, mingles with the fragrance of dust and age. It composes a melody from the voices of printed whispers, rows of books acting as voiceless conductors, swaying in time with your heart.
"Every page turns a dream," she breathes, words barely a sigh, dissolving into the tranquility of the archive. The walls cradle her voice, echoing softly through the void. You are bound to listen, to perceive the profound silence that sings.
Outside, rain traces a rhythm against window panes, but inside, time stands still, a curatorial choice. You close your eyes and let the tones guide you: The Melodies of Could Have Been, Errant Harmonies.