Through the whispering corridors of time, in the lingering dusk of forgotten realities, one could hear the echoes of years—fragile and fleeting, like the last breath of a winter's night. These echoes, enshrined in shadows, tell tales of lives lived, of whispers exchanged in the dim glow of candlelit memories.
Once, there was a garden where shadows danced upon the graves of those who remembered too much. The petals wilted into ashes, and the sky cried a silver mist that veiled the horizon in eternal twilight. Such is the sorrow of time, a relentless tide eroding the sands of yesterday.
Somewhere amid the echoing silence, a clock ticks backward, unraveling moments where faces fade into the mist. The air is thick with unspoken words, clinging like spider silk, and the corridors stretch infinitely—every turn unveiling another piece of the eternal puzzle.
Whispers in Shadows