In the muted silence, voices rise, weaving through corridors untouched. An echo, a whisper—certainly, someone's shadow follows, yet the halls are mine alone.
Do you recall the song mimicked by skyward dancers? The murmurs that ripple through the air, unseen but profoundly felt, like memories of words once spoken.
The path stretches before me, illuminated by starlight, shadowed in dream. Where do echo's echoes go?
With each step, I leave a trace of stardust, a chorus of silence crescendoing beneath the arches of temporal solitude.
And yet, beyond this solitude, lies another journey, enveloped in the mist of forgotten songs, where starlings sing without wings.