The shadows speak in whispers, fragments of voices lost in time. Their echoes wrap around like a shroud, comforting, yet chilling. They remember who we have forgotten ourselves to be.
Can you hear the sighs of ghosts as they glide through the vapors of past memories? They trace paths through corridors unseen, leaving etchings on the walls of our minds.
The stories lay scattered in the corners, like dust beneath the floorboards. Each fleck a tome bound in leather, its spine cracked with age. If only we could read through the dust.
"In silence, we find our voice, in shadows we find our light," murmurs the ancient wind.