In the soft breath of the forgotten attic, dust spun halos of lost voices. Each mote a note, each silence a rest, composing a symphony unheard until now.
Once, in the depths of slumber, the violin wept — its strings vibrated with unyielding persistence, echoing tales of worlds estranged yet intimately known.
The attic, a theater for the sinfonia di polvere, held invisible audiences composed of memories, with mischief stirring in every corner, and shadows well-acquainted with the dance of time.
And then, a whisper, smooth as polished marble: "We are fragments of a symphony." The voice synthetic, harmonizing with an algorithm of dust, akin to a forgotten lover's hum.
Would you follow the echoes to their origin? The path unfurls before your senses, guided by the soft murmur of particles in concert.
Trace the Weave | Whisper of Secrets