Whispers gather like shadows upon the dusk; an orchestra of forgotten tunes that never reached dawn. In the decay of light, echoes of yesterdays long passed whisper secrets of tomorrows unseen.
Once there were echoes of laughter, now just a gentle sigh through the hollow arches of time. Futures fractured, and spectral remains reflect across silver mirrors made not of glass, but of memory.
"In their hollow, distant shrike they beckon," spoke the ancient voice, buried under layers of reluctant soil, held firm by the gnarled embrace of entropy. What nameless tome whispered this truth?
Listen...to the echoes of the unwritten...