In the silence, specters of past whisper,

their voices like the rustle of dried leaves.

Hollow tones echo against spectral walls, the room, an archive of the unsung, holds shadows that bleed into twilight, memories weaving a gossamer web of despair.

Trying to pierce through the gloom,

I reach for truths hidden in the interstices, only to grasp at echoes, fading fast, like sunlight on a long-forgotten path.

Let us wander where the whispers curl
Into the Chamber of Wandering Dreams
Murmured Secrets in the Twilight Mist