Underneath the ceaseless hum of the city, where the lights pierce the draping fog, lie stories untold. Each window a confessional, each shadow a witness to forgotten tales. The silent screams echo here, loud yet unnoticed, amidst the relentless bustle.
A door creaks ajar—just enough—to let the unseen seep into your reality. You walk past the cryptic murmurings, dismissing them as figments, though deep down you sense their truth. Here lies the ash of yesterday’s hopes, blending seamlessly with today’s quiet dread.
The confluence exists not in grand events but in the mundane: a fleeting glance at the mirror, the echo of a child’s laugh in a deserted alley, the way shadows dance when you’re not looking. Each moment a reminder that silence holds its own kind of power, a power turned inward.
Take a moment to listen. The fragments of truth are hidden among the whispers, waiting for those willing to see through the lens of obscurity.