An echo resides in the absence of touch.
We rebuild, with old shadows, senseless whispers lost to the winds that carry unseen hands, strangers against our skin.
The soft beating of a heart never spoken, never seen, echoes here. Listen close to the hollow thrum of forgotten fingertips.
Chase the phantom vibrations back to lands untrodden:
Instructions, halve length, quarter breadth; the board requires a unique architecture of binding, yet the figment escapes.
In moments where reality thins like autumn mist, we sense:
"The brush of silk on a skin we no longer possess."