Between the dim-lit corridors, where whispers sigh through ancient walls, lies the tale of echoes unheard,
of hearts entwined in scripts, now faint upon the azure dust.
Her name was laced within every parchment, delicate as the morning dew, yet boundless in her mystery.
Failed love strokes the vellum, undulations of a fleeting past pressed into the latitudes of time.
In moonlit kisses exchanged upon the spines of closed volumes, a chronicler drew softly, carving love into the indices—a palimpsest of shadows lingering in cafe corners. While she read between the words, he wept inkless tears; histories erased, but always there.
Time erodes the etchings, yet what heart ever fades without trace? Beneath cracked leather bindings, restless souls dance still beneath old chandeliers, in rhythms only ever dreamt of beneath the spell of unread volumes.
Echoes of the HallwayTomes of the Hidden