Within the folds of silence, I find a multitude of voices, threading through the tapestry of moments transcribed in time. Each whisper is a loom, weaving stories yet untold, reflections of shadows dancing at the edge of light's embrace.
Counting the echoes becomes an art, a refrain of breaths held between the lines of this solitary narrative. Can you hear them? The murmurs of forgotten songs, refracted through the prism of a mind adrift.
Every echo is a thread, weaving the unseen fabric of an unwritten destiny. Do you see them, the invisible hands of time, counting their steps in the shadows of what once was?
The quiet places hold these mysteries, waiting for ears willing to listen beyond the surface's skin.