In the corridors of faded whispers,
the clock ticks backward on a silent hour,
where shadows speak in murmured tongues.
Upon the edge of twilight’s grace,
fragments fall like stars unbound,
each a story, each a sigh,
each an unseen echo.
Silken ribbons, undulating softly,
their touch a ghost, their warmth, a breath,
in the dance of a moonless waltz.