In the halls where the stairs go nowhere and the doors breathe sighs of nostalgia, there lies a
gathering long forgotten, where the whispering echoes twist into forms of unsaid words.
Leaves made of glass catch the light of moons unseen, and shadows dance harmoniously with their
mirage. Time here ticks fluidly, a brush stroke on an unfinished canvas, an eternal question
mark trailing behind.
Synthesis of Murmurs, a phase not touched by
mortal hands yet wished for by every pulse within the cosmos.
Can dreams speak if listened through the lens of a fading echo? What melodies must be
understood when bathed in the illusions of the corridor's embrace?
Jeden Stein, eine Geschichte. Litev pasakai seka.