In the semi-darkness, silence spoke louder than words. The walls, they knew the stories that never reached the door, never reached the outside world. Outside, the rain kept their secrets safe. Inside, the dampness stirred feelings, thoughts, echoes that never quite found a destination.
Is there a place where echoes find a voice? We wander, we wonder, we speak but our words remain like footprints in puddles—temporary, fleeting, discarded with the next wave.
Time folds in on itself, layers of days and nights, each a shadow of the last, each a promise never kept. And we, the keepers of echoes, listen to the murmurs in the cracks. Listen, for answers lie between the lines.
Perhaps there’s a journey that breaks this cycle. A journey that reshapes whispers into shouts, shadows into sunlight. Until then, we remain.