From the edges of existence, a voice murmurs. It resonates with the resonance of forgotten corridors, where time is woven with shadow and light.
In dreams, the remains of once vibrant tales linger like mist, wrapping around the essence of things left unsaid. The air is thick with stories folded in silence, waiting to be unveiled.
When the phantom limb reaches out, what do we feel? Not the touch, but the echo. Not the presence, but the memory: a swirling spell of the tangible, and a dance upon the fringes of what could be.
Whispers in the Corridors