Echoes of Forgotten Whispers
Once, in a realm where vowels wept and consonants danced, memories unfolded like petals in the moonlight, each whisper a thread in the loom of dreams.
The clock does not tick here; it unwinds, unraveling time into a spiraled yarn of secret colors.
The mirror speaks in riddles, reflecting not what is, but what might have been if shadows had form.
Do you remember the echo of your own name, called from the forgotten depths? Or the soft sigh of the wind as it carried tales of places never seen?