In the shadow of the ivory towers, where the whispers of forgotten kernels linger, erased histories paint the walls of memory. Once, the air vibrated with tales, now hushed by time's gentle hand.
The old books spoke, though they were not heard: "Let not the towers fall, lest the kernels spill forth their truths." A voice, perhaps an echo of a forgotten sage, reminded us of the delicate balance.
We walked the hallways, our footsteps tracing the outlines of lost narratives, where every stone held the imprint of ancient words, half-remembered and half-erased. "Who wrote this?", we asked, but the walls only sighed.
Behind closed doors, the scholars pondered. Ink stained their fingers, but it was the invisible script that haunted their dreams: "To understand the present, we must decipher the invisible."
And so, the towers stood, pillars of ivory and mystery, guardians of the kernels, protectors of the whispered past. Does truth lie in what is seen or in what is hidden beneath layers of time?