Once, in a dream woven from cobweb and whisper, she found a cradle of shadows. It cradled not the child she hoped, but specters of what could have been. A heart wrapped in twilight murmurs, tangled in the echoes of unwritten verses.
Phantom EchoesHe traversed the alleyways of memory, each turn a flicker of understanding lost. Among the cobblestone lies a forgotten journal, pages etched in fog, voice unsigned. Shadows dance, naming names unspoken, forming words on lips that never part.
Spectral DreamsWhere laughter once rang, now the silence sits heavy, a crown of solitude. Even the ghosts wear masks here, carefully curated to hide their fading halos. In the shadow gallery, sorrow waltzes with reverie, a duet without a refrain.
Unsung EpiloguesGlimpses of a life not taken flicker like candlelight in a storm. He reaches out, fingers brushing against the cold metal of memories suspended. Stories written on the wind, dissolving like sugar in rain, sweet yet fleeting.
Lament of the Cradle