In these walls, where whispers weave a tapestry of sound—silence sings, not with vocal cords but with an absence so profound it laps at the edges of perception. A crescendo of quiet. What binds this air, thick with forgotten notes? A symphony of nothing, arranged by shadowed hands.
Each step sends vibrations that play notes on the bones of the earth, chords suspended in the stale air. Do they hear? The catacombs listen, ancient ears attuned to the heart's quiet symphonies, its unspoken rhythms. An orchestra of solitude, echoing through the caverns of history.
Forgotten Tunes and the Deep Bass of our subconscious—these are the whispers that haunt, the echoes that caress the mind with their gentle, invisible touch.