In the vast cathedral of stillness, each whisper hung suspended, a shimmering thread of thought— delicate, fleeting, then swallowed by the abyss of quietude. We chase silence as a child chases shadows, yearning for a place untainted by the clamor of existence.
Echoes, you see, are merely ghosts of sound, returning from the folds of time with a beckoning nostalgia, reminding us of echoes once heard—an ancient reverberation in an empty hall, a voice unfinished and longing for an answer that never arrives.
Here's a door to the portal of whispers, left ajar, inviting the lean traveler to step through into the phantasmal realm woven loosely by interlacing memories.
As you stand just beyond, another echo murmurs a tale of murmurs through time, lingering in the shivering air like a song without notes.