In the corridors of the mind where whispers linger, shadows intertwine with flickering memories.
“The door creaks as it unveils time, a tapestry woven from sunlight and shadow.”
Mother used to say, “Watch the fading light, child—every second is a dying star.
The moths are drawn to it, thinking it is the zenith of existence.
“Time is a vessel, leaking stories—each drop echoing the sadness of moments lost.”
Hear the echoes that flutter like fading memories, an invitation to explore.
Among the graves of forgotten dreams, the sunlight softly weeps, breathing life into dim silhouettes where echoes of laughter may haunt.
Every ghost has a story, every shadow a longing to be remembered.
“But who will remind us? The moon, perhaps, listens with its silver ear, petrified in solemn darkness.”
Find solace in reflections where light bends and contorts under the weight of sorrow.