The whispers coil like silver serpents, unraveling secrets in the corridors where time drips slowly, pausing only for the breath of a memory, fading.
In the garden of silent screams, a flame flickers, illuminating a path not taken, a pathway woven of dreams still unspoken, lingering like mist.
Yet the labyrinth is a mirror, reflecting the void in symphonies, each note a step, each silence a turn into the unknown.