In the quiet corridors, echoes of footsteps not belonging. They call you by a name that feels ever-familiar, yet so distant.
Words float like forgotten paper boats on a darkened stream. Have they always been here, or was this another journey foretold?
Questions meld into the fabric of solitude, each moment a mirror of another. Do the walls speak, or is it the whisper of wind?
The labyrinth stretches endlessly, yet each turn feels like homecoming. You trace lines of remembered laughter.
Whispered Echoes Whispers in Reflection Fleeting Memory