Behold the quiet quiver of the untold tale, where eyes speak volumes only stars comprehend. The flicker of a forgotten lantern, a ghost's soft laugh amid windswept silence echoes.
As the evening unfurls its moth-wing cloaks, the street is a film strip in sepia. Silhouettes dance their waltz to a melody of muted echoes, each step in stark contrast to its silence whispering secrets of the night...
And then a figure, obscured by time's tender embrace, emerges from the haze—a ripple across the latent tributary of dreams. Do we recall their name, their story, or are these merely echoes of a life we've never lived?