"It was once a bustling street," the elderly woman murmured, tracing her finger over the faded plaster on the wall. "Can you hear the echoes of voices calling directions, lost under the tomb of time?" A soft breeze swept through, carrying whispers of unfamiliar conversations.
Somewhere beneath the layers of paint and brick, an old sign still clings to the surface. It's barely legible now, but hints of "Flourishing Figs Store" peek through the dust. How many times, we wonder, has the story changed here, rewritten and forgotten, just to be buried once more?
A mustard yellow sits alongside an emerald green swath, remnants of a time when colors were not yet faded, when the world was bright and new. The children playing hide and seek in the corridors of this forgotten structure would see the history woven in, told in the languages of light and shadow.