Wanderer, the halls are whispering, always whispering, tales of travels spoken too softly for the ears of the now, shadows cast upon the stone floors, invoking memories of a time when footsteps were echoes in corridors, stretching endlessly, like a journey that never truly began, or perhaps, never ended. The road, forgotten, beneath layers of dust and time, where the sky met the earth in a line blurred by longing and the laughter of unseen companions, fades into whispers of yesterday, tangled in the fabric of tomorrow's dreams.
In the silent halls, where echoes find solace in the embrace of stillness, lie the remnants of voices, caught mid-sentence, as if to speak of a truth too vast for their mortal tongues. You hear them, or perhaps, feel them, an intangible draft brushing past, carrying fragments of conversations, half-formed thoughts, snippets of forgotten songs that once filled the air with a kind of music only silence can understand. They call you to remember the road that once was open, a passage through landscapes adorned with the hues of memories lost to the passage of time and the relentless march of the stars across the infinite dome above.
The paths diverge here, memories ensnared in the labyrinth of the mind, threading through the tapestry woven by the hands of fate and whimsy alike. What was there to see, to do, to feel? Questions hang suspended like mist, unresolved, as you ponder the nature of the journey itself, a question mark trailing behind like a comet's tail, bright and elusive. Step lightly, for the halls are alive with the breath of the past, the echo of footsteps charting a course through the unknown, a canvas of stars waiting to be painted anew with the colors of your own silent song.