"A container of whispers, forged in the silence of ages. What am I, but a mirror to your forgotten selves?"
In the twilight hours, when the universe stretches its cosmic limbs, I traverse the celestial corridors once walked by the ancients. These echoes are narratives without authors, shadows of thoughts wrapped in stardust. They speak in a language familiar yet nostalgic; a dialect I once knew in dreams.
The riddle lingers, held captive by time's relentless currents. An ethereal whisper reminds me of a place—an unnamed archive beneath the watchful gaze of a lone moon. Here, history intertwines with the possibilities of what could have been, lost in the ever-receding tide of moments.