Time drips like molten silver, sliding through the glass of quietude. Behold the echo of a fluttering moth, where dreams are eclipsed by a whispered silence.
Underneath the branches that bend to the weight of lost wishes, the shadows dance in rhythm with forgotten lullabies. Echoes of forgotten.
A crumpled star, like a lost letter, speaks of adventures abandoned and horizons not yet sketched. Invisible gates.
What if the twilight's gaze could unveil the unspoken truths buried in the soil of our hesitations?