The corridors twist and unwind, holding secrets of days gone by. Beneath the buzzing city, underneath the layers of modernity, there lies a path seldom walked, where echoes of forgotten voices linger. Shadows of faces catch you by surprise as you wander silently through.

Once, there was a woman, an old friend of an old friend. She spoke of summers past, long and unending, where fireflies danced over corn fields at twilight. We never walked those fields, but in their golden presence, something familiar and tender took root in our hearts. As she spoke, her voice became part of the night air itself, veiled with hints of distant laughter.

Another memory, perhaps, of a boy chasing the tail of a dragonfly. Someone's son, or maybe just a fleeting glimpse of someone’s past from a life unlived, had it been someone else's story. His laughter streamed like sunlight slipping through a foggy dawn, a sound that brought the ache of nostalgia, even then, perhaps unwritten, a truth uncaptured in any overt tale.

"In the labyrinth, we find ourselves not lost, but searching." A voice echoes, yet never reveals its roots.

Paths upon paths, trodden by invisible feet, a sprawling archive of human experience. One shape shifts nearby—a door, an exit, an entrance, or just a glimmer of hope masked as a fleeting fantasy? Stories drip down the walls, curling, delicate, viscous like sweet honey running slow, tracing pathways onto fingertips.

Words in the whispers
Unseen corridors