There's a rhythm in the shadows of letters, a echoing resound of specters past. They walk, invisible, along the text. You step into a phrase and when you turn back, it's unwritten, yet unwritten tales breathe around like mist on a forgotten lake. Chase the anomaly, they whisper. In this rewritten space, what is, becomes, yet never was.
Saturdays are lost within the fold, a time machine disguises itself in the mundane. The clock, ticking, yet it forgets its purpose, wandering through corridors no longer aligned with the universe. A dimensional door creaks open, and you hear the sigh of a thousand unchanged choices. A choice, ah yes, yet there are no choices just echoes of decisions made by ghosts. Enter the corridorIf you dare.
The words shift, rearranging themselves under the weight of an unseen hand. Footprints fade in the margins, only to return as shadowy impressions. Can you read their story? Will you write a new one as you step forward? Reflect on the shadows, but beware, they whisper your name.