In the stillness of the room, a clock ticks unchecked. Shadows stretch like fingers yawning through a forgotten corridor, their existence muted by the astute passage of time. They are the echoes that vividly break over damp memories, whispering stories only walls can retain.
"Have you seen the petals fall softly to the ground, like faded whispers of a once-vibrant dialogue?" the dust asks, as if expecting an answer from the fading furniture. Inside, dust bunnies scatter like nervous thoughts, hopping from one obscured crevice to another, escaping the ever-watchful gaze of the daylight.
Gather ‘round, the echoes invite — a tale unfolds.
The past is not always resigned and tucked away. What is it that brings surge?! Is it a stray thought? A faded image provoked by rare spectres that strike mortal souls with transient blooms of yearning?
Click through shadows to wonder: Where’s the way back? or perform your own transient interactions, each click echoing a memory set adrift.
Do whispers multiply in empty spaces? To remain alone with reflections cast before in smooth glass—