"Have you ever noticed how the shadows whisper secrets, not in words but in echoes?"
A voice, aged like the stones that bore witness to time's march, murmured half into the reverberations of an unspoken past. The question lingered, pretending to seek answers in a suspended universe.
And so, the patterns appeared beneath our feet; illusions danced between perception and the fog of dreams.
Another voice, this one a child's, tender and true, asked why the patterns changed when no eyes were watching them.
To which the elder replied, "For the patterns do not care for eyes; they listen instead to the heart's metronome."
"And when the last of our whispers fade?"
There was a silence, profound, punctuated only by the rhythm of unseen waves upon the shores of reality.