Beneath the hush of the moon's indifferent gaze, they gathered. Shadows of forgotten dialogues, twirling in the pallor dimming to gray. Once lively, these whispers would orchestrate symphonies of fervor; now, they sigh in solitude amidst the ash-shelf corners of time.
Each step, a chronicle—each movement, an untold saga. The floor beneath them, a tapestry, woven with the remnants of the stories no longer spoken, frayed yet enduring. They echoed the rhythms of transient breaths, a relentless beat of descent and release.
In the corners, where dust congregates in patient vigil, truths linger with sporadic flickers. Questions unasked gaze with hollow eyes, mirroring the dance of the somber choir. Do they know the cycles of the sun, the stories we weave, our ephemeral tether pulled taut across the expanse?
Forsaken Echoes