In the twilight of forgotten echoes, the whispers weave stories untold, whispered through the canvas of the void.
A clock without hands ticked in a language only dreams could understand. Its rhythm echoed, echoed, echoed...
A door creaks ajar, revealing not a room, but a memory not yet lived. Step through, if you dare voyage, visions.
The stars above sigh a melancholic tune, their melody brushing the edges of reality, like gentle fingertips tracing forgotten lines.
She speaks in metaphors, her words a tapestry of colored silks, fraying at the edges of tangible worlds. Weaver, echo.
Embrace the silence, for it will tell you truths hidden beneath the fabric of time. And what awaits beyond, unknown.