In a realm where whispers cling like mist, there lies an empty hall, echoing footsteps in solitary dance.
Once, the theorem hung like a tapestry upon the walls of forgotten thought—woven of dreams, unspoken truths.
We chase shadows of the past, the delicately veiled whispers, slipping through fingers as fine sands.
Is the theorem an illusion? Or a truth that eludes the waking voice, hidden beneath layers of twilight?
Travel further into the dream Follow the echoes of the mind