Shadows whisper secrets on the edge of perception, words tumbling like forgotten memories, echoing, echoing, echoing in the vast emptiness. A door stands before you, ajar, a portal to what lies beyond. What is it that calls? The hum of time slipping through fingers, or perhaps the soft sigh of reality, bending, shifting, slipping into dreams of a fading tapestry. "Is there anything behind me?"
The path is a maze, winding and curling, echo without end, reverberations of thoughts unspoken, scattered like leaves in the autumn wind. Listen, listen to the murmurs, the echoes of questions long asked and never answered, shadows lurking just outside the light, waiting, watching, whispering.