In the dim-lit corridors of yesterday's dreams, beneath the watchful gaze of sleeping stars, there lies a symphony of whispers, woven into the very fabric of time itself. These are the echoes of what might have been, caught in delicate strings, trembling lightly in the ether. They sing a melancholic melody, a dirge for the paths untraveled and the choices unchosen.
"We had once been, in another string of fate..."
The narratives decay like autumn leaves, forming a carpet of golden memories beneath the ever-encroaching winter of oblivion. Each leaf, a story; each story, a sepulcher for dreams that dared to manifest. As the winds of time blow, these tales are carried away, leaving naught but the whisper of their passage.
"Listen closely, and you might hear the echoes of our laughter..."