The clock's hands belong nowhere yet everywhere, a spiral absent of spiral, ticking silently.
Pieces, missing and disjointed, figure the shadow where sun cannot reach.
Echoes seek a path; labyrinth’s embrace is tender, cruel, holding fragmented futures.
Was there ever a door where keys whisper more than words? Rusty locks dream never.
Chronicles bleed themes, twisted enigmas in forgotten ink.
Strands whisper dreams of unwritten events, time's fragile truths unravel.
Gaze unto the mirrors in the corridors—paths through reflections ripple, weave unseen stories.
In the depths, shadows of whispers take form, a dance of echoes without melody.
Mosaic of memories unremembered yet felt, the essence of what was and never was.