In twilight's embrace, where shadows dance with light, a hymn of ages past serenades the stars. It speaks of a love that is, yet is not, a melody woven through the fabric of time, replaying in dreams both familiar and distant.
The soul remembers what the eyes have never seen; a soft murmur of forgotten promises lingers in breaths unspoken. To love is to dwell on the cusp of the unreal, an echo in an empty hall, fragrant with the ghosts of what could have been.
Nova as our guide, the path serpents through starlit canopies. Touchless echoes reverberate, whisper of winds, touch of the sun—
Perhaps it is here, within these words bathed in silver rain, that we find Deja Vu’s silent confessor, the knowing glance exchanged between selves unknown. Seek not the end, but the reflection of the journey.