In the dimness where shadows breathe singularly, whispers are woven into the walls, and yet, the fabric of silence folds upon itself like an ancient tide. Steps hardly echo here, just winds murmuring through forgotten cracks, touching the edges of reality.
Thoughts cascade in echoes of echoes, reverberating against the heart's own chambers, a rhapsody of solitude sculpted in echoic silence. Predicted by no one, caught by all—they linger endlessly, waiting, elusive.
Have you ever touched time gently as it slips away like sand through fingers that ache for moments lost? Here, in an expanse undefined, every thought is an echo leaving residual whispers in its wake, a tapestry threaded with dreams unfulfilled.
Rest a moment, and listen closely—the silence speaks a language known to few; rhythmic like a heartbeat, like an ocean’s sigh, a slumbering curiosity that questions and answers within the confines of this hall.
When you depart, remember each silence cloaked in shadow, each echo bound to another, holding secrets of existence untold, woven intricately into the fabric of the void. Return, should you dare, to grasp the echoes once more.