The light unfurls like whispers in the dusk, the gentle kiss of shadows upon unseen doorways, bidding farewell with cryptic sighs.
An echo here, muted, runs its fingers softly across the spine of ancient tomes, bound in whispers, filled with dreams untouched: "They recite verses of the unsaid, the stories dwelled within dreams' gentle cradles."
Travelers tread the peripheries, these boundaryless banks of consciousness: Stars, Guests, and Trees.
Within the corridors, the breath of epochs at rest, thoughts adrift like autumn leaves over endless hours: "The past they echo, the future they cradle in patience."