Within the endless stretches of stone grey, it is not the light that passes, but whispers. Whispers that once painted the air with echoes of a symphony never composed, unraveling within corridors that seem to fold upon themselves like stories lost in the dusk.
Each step reverberates, though who steps here grows dust in the daylight, unseen by all but the specter of memory. Flickering through the gaps between knowing and unknowing, a candle burned at both ends illuminates nothing but the emptiness itself.
Is it the dissonant harmony of existence that calls? The hollow tone asking for an answer not found in waking? We wander, yearning for the corridors to yield the secrets they wrap in veils of silence, surrendering but only ghostly murmurs.
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