Behind the curtains, folds of thought linger, suspended like mist in an early morning's embrace. In this corridor, the whispers weave tales of forgotten summers, brushed away by the gentle touch of time's caress. A voice with echoes wrapped in velvet, speaking silently in the language of dreams.

The hallway stretches, a tapestry woven with the threads of yesteryears. In its quietude, I am an echo, a ripple on the surface of consciousness, searching for the seams where reality meets the ethereal.

Beneath the surface, whispers coil, secrets held dearly by the shadows of the mind. "Who walks the dreams?" they ask, a question without an answer, meant only for those who dare to listen. A revelation, perhaps, or an invitation to wander the labyrinth of one's own making.

In this ballet of light and shadow, the dreamer dances, guided by whispers that trace the soft contours of their heartbeat. "We are here," they whisper, "in the spaces between knowing and believing." And so, a path unfolds, illuminated by the fireflies of imagination.

Curtains drawn slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of the celestial beyond—stars hanging like thoughts in the night sky, waiting to be wished upon, yearning for the dreamer's sigh. Here, amidst the echoes, a story begins, written by the hands of the unseen.

Follow the murmurs
To the harmonies beyond
Encounters with phantoms