The hall stretches infinitely, lined with faded murals whispering forgotten stories. Shadows dance at the periphery of vision, a trick of light or a playful specter? Each step reverberates, a soft drumbeat of time's relentless march.
Here lies the parchment of dreams, crumbled and worn, tracing the whispers of scholars long passed. In every crease, a world unfolds, vivid yet elusive. The scent of ink and wisdom lingers, ghostly, as if the muses still write.
What echoes in these empty corridors? The laughter of children chasing phantoms, or the sighs of lovers touching the untouchable? These traces, imprints of life lived, linger in the dust motes that float, suspended in sunlit grace.