There was a fleeting touch of silk-like whispers against the earlobe, the shivered letter wrapped beneath moth-eaten velvet, carrying verses long sung by lips that smell of antiquity and alabaster dreams.
One stands upon the cobbled path, destined it seems, yet the chain of consequence is merely a reflection in the sea of fog. As the clock tolls its cryptic hymns, figures emerge amongst the brambles, weaving tales known yet yearning a memory resolute in time unbent.
A lengthy journey through corridors, through shadowed windows, captures the hued reflection of lives unlived, or is it remembered? Somewhere, among laden willows, a door stands ajar; the echoes beckon.