In the quietest hours, when the world hums a gentle lullaby, the threads begin to spin. Each strand, a whisper of old stories, unravels and rewinds.
The loom of existence works silently, weaving tapestries of moments that were, are, and could have been. A cycle, an echo, a spinning wheel forgotten in the attic.
The past lingers in shadows, casting long reflections on the present’s surface. Here lies the melancholy sweetness of nostalgia, a bittersweet embrace.
We wander through corridors of memory, past doors left ajar, inviting us to peek into lives not lived.
And yet, we continue to spin, caught in the web of infinite threads.
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