In a world made of whispers and echoes of yesterday, the dreams freeze, persistently looping, endlessly repeating.
Time, like a river, has paused in its flow, and I find myself in this icy stillness, where moments seem to gather, silent and heavy, like the cold mist at dawn.
Sometimes I hear them, the songs of what could have been, of the footsteps that never left imprints in the snow, a melody trapped behind glass, reverberating softly, endlessly, hauntingly.
The dreams, they shatter against the walls I’ve built, frozen fragments of what could be, silence takes shape around me, yet the loop continues, and I am both the observer and the observed.