Under a sky draped in velvet haze, the city breathed. Its pulse echoed in the quiet corners where light rarely touched. Shadows danced, their movements fluent and unencumbered by the weight of time.
In this obscure domain, they whispered tales of bygone footsteps—stories etched on phantom pavements. A silhouette paused, tracing the outline of a memory with fingers made of dusk.
A clock turned somewhere, untouched yet relentless. Its hands brushed the edges of reality. It whispered secrets only the shadows understood. They leaned, listened, and overflowed like whispered ink upon pages unseen.
They moved, a current through the alleyways of echo and whisper. Unraveled tales spilled from hidden doorways, winding like mist around forgotten lampposts.
As we ventures deeper, the shadows themselves began to linger, tracing the lines of our skin with echoes of voices the sun could not find. We were never alone, and yet the traces were always ephemeral.
And in the heart of the encroaching dimness, a final trace—soft, delicate, fleeting—faded into the solemn embrace of night, leaving only the promise of return in the gentle rustling of the endless shadow.