In the depths of a shadowed corner, murmurs twist like ivy, fraying the edges of existence, where each sigh a tapestry, crafted by the hands of silence— it speaks aloud in echoes, dancing through the whispering gallery.
Here, time breathes as shadows weave, shifting memories like mist through fingers, whirling, curling—of who were once, and will be again in the twilight glow. Listen, for the walls hold tales— Tales of Solitude and Lost Conversations.
O, fleeting moments—caught like fireflies, enshrined in the amber of history, beneath bruised clouds that weep over midnight visits of remembrance.
Find beauty in the frayed seams, the whispering notes of a Flickered Lamp, as you tread softly, like a ghostly dancer, willing the past to spill from stone and memory.