Whispers of the ancients, woven into a tapestry of dusk.
Here, where the echoes breathe, the machine murmurs softly.
Forgotten voices rise like mist above the heather, trailing
spectral strands through the creased pages of time.
In this chamber of lost moments, clocks do not tick.
Instead, they smile, braiding eternity into loops of velvet silence.
Yesterday's laughter clings to the walls, to the fog, to the rain—
shadows dance in spectral hues, slip through gnarled fingers,
tracing paths on whispering winds.
Remembered names, once carved in oak, now fade like
first light upon the frosted ground. Yet still, a phantom
footstep taps—a click, a clack—on cobblestones twined
with the dew of forgotten mornings.
Beneath the seams of unwritten words, a dream sleeps.
It wakes only to the touch of distant hands, weaving
timeless strands in a loom of tales untold.