Whispers in hushed tones, where echoes find their home, each syllable lingers in the bounds of forgotten spaces. A chorus unseen, yet felt upon the skin’s breeze, traces of voices lost amidst dim-lit corridors.
Shall we listen to what has never begun? The canvas of each note stretches across silent ages, a fluorescent reverberation in the expanse, waiting, yearning, without end in sight.
A room half-formed, where shadows call their kin, bathe in the twilight of dim reluctance. And here the echoes form — a tapestry unseen, woven with fibers of the void, singing.