Beneath the vaulted ceilings of memory, where time drips like honey from the comb of eternity, echoes embrace shadows in a dance as old as life itself. Paths forgotten weave through the mind, their presence felt as whispers on the back of the heart.
Once, at the precipice of this labyrinthine thought, stood a figure clad in echoes—a reflection cast upon the lake of sleep. The steps they traced were filigrees of light, etched into the tapestry of dusk. Each footfall a testament to journeys unfinished, every corner turned revealed a ghost of familiarity, an inescapable embrace of déjà vu.
These whispers, soft as the sigh of willow branches, beckon softly from beneath the lattice of night. They speak of pathways not lost, but hidden, waiting for the brave to uncover their secrets. The stars, those ancient sentinels, watch from afar as stories unfold in the soft unfolding of petals at dawn.