Whispers. Shadows move in half-lit corridors, the echoes of brittle laughter ascend and disappear.
She opens a door—a rhythm of forgotten desires lingers as the reflective mirror melts into an abyss.This is where time faltered, roots tangled in the soil of unspoken words.
Muffled scenes bleed into the screen:
the melancholy of a strolling violin, a flickering candle fighting off the encroaching night.
Voiceless gestures translating the language of invisible tendrils that caress the vast silence.
Above, a crescent moon yawns, stretching shadows as they twine into ribbons of silver screen dreams.
A door closes—Myriad paths trace their fingers over the spectral traces left behind, stardust falling from ethereal hands.
In the corner, a figure watches, a faint smile breaking through time's elusive barrier—a reminder of echoes past.
As close to whispers as one can get, their presence felt but never seen, dancers migrate through the void—perpetual motion in a stationary world.
Embers of dreams that never took flight, lingering like the last kiss of dawn's gentle sigh on the horizon.