Once, gentle whispers brushed past my dreams, like clicks of a lover's watch left unwinding, inside vast rooms cloaked in daring shadows. Every footstep resonated, departed souls dancing upon the unyielding wooden floors.
Beyond the drawn curtains, stories sleep, nudged by ghosts of fragrances — a rosewood tone mingling with summer’s wistfulness; sprigs of lavender waited, clasps of delicate hands evoked in spiraling fog.
Gaze now upon the mirror where figures once tört, hands languidly swaying, reflections returning but intangible: Whisper Their Names, Trace The Light
Listen: tales of echoing affection remain strained, fated to spin endlessly on the hub, with hope reborn each dusk. Here, legends partake the chapel of eternal dusk — candlelit. Shadows offering solace, wanted yet unclaimed.
Perhaps we tread together on layers of answered prayers; hollow exchanges upon reflections defined by echoes, molding time with imprints left by caressing words. For every silence we share, another melody is born.
Return to wandering pieces of midnight and reminiscences spun
anew in echoes rebounding through heart's galleries.