In the shadowed corridors, a whisper lingers...
"Do you hear the echo of what once was?"
The walls remember, though we cannot. Fragments of laughter, imbued with sorrow, drift like specters through the darkened halls.
"In the attic, dust dances on beams of mournful light," she said, her voice a ghost in the air.
Silken threads of memory weave an intricate tapestry, each stitch a moment lost to time, each unraveling thread a truth forgotten.
"Once, we built towers of dreams," he murmured, "but the night has claimed them all."
Echoes bounce from stone to stone, like raindrops on a desolate sea, rippling the fabric of the forsaken now.