In the succulent dusk thick with shadows, a silhouette dances between echoes as it whirls into the void, running fingers through the air like a painter chasing whispers across a monochrome canvas.
Footprints lead nowhere, each imprint a memory fading like a mirage, teasing, beckoning the soul to chase after what was never really there — a mischievous apparition of certainty.
The wind hums a tune only the restless know, its notes slipping like grains of sand through outstretched hands, sweet illusions collapsing into the shoulders of lost tomorrows.