In a time not yet born, where whispers cling to shadows, and doorways hum with forgotten songs. The air is thick with riddles, unanswered and unspoken. Listen closely, for the echo carries a truth untold.
Obscured tablets inscribed with the language of stars lie beneath the silent sands. They speak of doorways beyond the corridor of time, where echoes converse with the unvoiced. Whisper to the stars, and they shall reveal secrets of the silent cosmos.
These realms bleed into existence where every sigh becomes a tale, reverberating through the corridors of the unmade future.
Memory is a fickle friend, a shadow dancing at the periphery of sight. It knows the stories of doorways past, lingering in echoes, waiting to be woven into the fabric of yet-to-be-unraveled dreams.