In the quiet corners of yesterdays, where sunlight tangles with dust, a soft memory breathes a sigh, forgotten, but not lost.
The echo of your laughter, woven into the secrets of ancient books, rests in the stillness of a room, where time, a patient artist, pauses.
Like moths drawn to a flickering flame, we chase the shadows of our once, forgotten in the embrace of now, yet alive in dreams unspoken.
There lie paths unwalked, in the whispers of clock hands, ticking truths unexamined, in the domain of forgotten moments.
Dream of the tapestries woven, with threads of stars and silence, for in this space lies a sigh, a breath, a heartbeat, a memory.