The room is a hollow chamber, filled with the song of echoes, resonating from unseen corners. It hums with the memory of movements, mechanical yet soft, as if the gears themselves dream of a sky long lost.
In this place, shadows flicker at the edges, casting stories untold. Murmur of the past, they say, a symphony of silver tones, of brass contraptions singing lullabies to the silence.
A clock ticks somewhere, its numbers fading like whispers in the wind. Time here is a gentle lie, weaving through the strings of a violin that plays on its own.
Can you hear it? The echoes of a song painted in twilight, where every note is an echo of a forgotten dream.