Have you ever stood in a doorway and just listened? Sometimes I think the walls listen back. Imagine your name spoken softly, like a breeze that curls around the corner and carries your past forward.
A friend once told me that these thresholds hold time in a delicate dance. Every footfall reverberates with a secret, every threshold crossed is like opening an envelope never meant to be sealed. What do you hear when you step over into tomorrow's arms?
There's an echo of laughter somewhere in the hallway, isn't there? Hopscotch dreams in a shadow of forgotten wind. Step lightly, footprints whisper stories they ought to keep.
Did you know that echoes sometimes form secret clubs? The walls rarely speak of it, but I’m a loyal member. Their whispers are clearly audible to those who stop to ponder the last syllables of a name carved in time’s soft clay.
Perhaps I’ll meet you here again, in this liminal space where future aligns with the past, and echoes are merely time's fondest sigh.
Explore further, and who knows what you'll discover? Maybe another portal, or just an echo of what could have been.