Consider this space—a vacant testament to what it once embraced. Dare we contemplate no further than the echoes that once walked this path, listening for answers only the buried know. Each fragment of memory escapes our grasp, shimmering just beneath the silver veil of time, like phantoms in twilight hours.
Close your eyes. Feel the absence around you. The weight and warmth of a thousand yesterdays spill forth from forgotten vessels. No one will speak, for speech became too harsh amidst the sweetness of rust and decay. Shall we rediscover them?
Time lists on creased parchment, inevitable penmanship wrought from the minutes of eternity. The clawing urgency to curate is futile, still, rust speckled and marked from days unkempt echoes softly against reality's firmament. How beautiful to be lost.