In the hollow chamber, where time weaves a tapestry of unheard whispers,
an echo stirs—a disturbance rippling through the silent folds of eternity.
Listen closely, and you might hear the forgotten songs of the ancients,
singing in verses known only to the shadows of abandoned dreams.
What is it that lingers in the echoes,
reverberating against the walls of the void?
An echo of an echo, a sound without a source,
a tune played on the strings of memory.
The walls pulse with the history of sound,
a multitude of voices, now one,
now scattered like leaves in a forgotten breeze.
Step closer, and the ground hums beneath,
a resonance of footsteps long faded,
a question asked in the language of silence,
the answer swirling in the cool breath of dusk.