In dreams, the corridors stretch eternally.
Somewhere within, a voice calls, its tone stifled, absorbed by walls unseen. Echoes heat the cool air, stave off whispers seeking refuge.
Lila found herself weaving through tempests of silence. Each door she opened led to tunnels not disclosed in earlier maps of her slumber.
"Keep walking, and soon the sound will mend," read the signs, though they were unduly composed in an alien script.
A fleeting Chateau stood imposing, draped in ivy, stationed at the infinity of paths. Scratch marks on wood tabled the stories yearning advocates penned before succumbing to sleep anew.
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The night, however; it continued, skinning thoughts while Lila's form spiraled into a procession of breadcrumbs casting echoes across unfurled endings.
"Here," they said, "the echoes do not reside in memory." Yet as Lila turned through pathways unheard, resonating laughter,—not her own—
rediscovered the twilight she didn't remember losing.
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