There's an echo in the hallway after midnight. Not from voices of those who live at the edges of imagination, but from the soft rustle of their thoughts, drifting through walls like specters long forgotten. In such murmurs, reality bends, and through the cracks, one can hear stories that were never written but lived just the same.
I met a stranger under a sky stained with the colors of dusk, his face framed by a journey only footsteps could understand. We exchanged nods and worlds woven in silence. Unspoken tales written in shadows moved by the winds cast familiar timbres.
The clock village ticked away in predictable rhythms, but beneath the tick, another beat went unseen—a harmony discordant yet serene. It sang of dreams untouched, echoes natural in their silent symphony. Daylight could mask, but never silence, what belonged to shadows.
In the misted park, where grass meets the edge of reason, children play at a world unseen by adults' clouded gaze. Lost swords and forgotten crowns tell more of kingdoms past than history books lined in wooden halls ever have.
These echoes, heard yet unnoticed, form the fabric of senses we wear without intention. Each woven thread a lineogenic story told by a whisper silenced before its time. But this is how the song flows on.