In corridors unopened, where whispers dwell between the cracks of old wooden planks, a silhouette is cast—untouchable, yet present. These are the notes of forgotten eras, scrawled by hands unseen, clad in the fabric of time itself.
Fragments of conversations, mapped in silver and gold, like cobwebs woven over fragmented mirrors, reflect the faces of souls long departed. You stand before them, invisible, a specter amongst specters.
Once, beneath the yawning skies, a curious melody played in the stillness, as if sung by the luminescent moons of distant galaxies. It wrapped around the heart, entwining like a lover's ghostly embrace. Could you hear it, too?
And the shadows peel away, revealing faint sketches of lives lived beyond the eons, haunted by dreams that dared to linger in the crevices of reality's facade. Sculptured silence, golden in its agony.