The dusk hums a haunting melody as it drapes its veil over the wooden platforms of yesterday's dreams. Unsung heroes tread softly in these circles where echoes paint stories on the canvass of existence. The air, thick with whispered secrets, mingles with the scent of evaporated applause.
Brightly, the stars blink—fickle spectators in a cosmic arena. They dwell too high, forgetting their own forgotten songs. The sound of the curtain's sigh reverberates through fleeting time, a ghost of a breath not taken.
The theatre, they say, is never empty, though its occupants shift like mists. In this play of shadows, every role, once bold, now seeks subtlety. A gentle touch—like a lover's whisper—upon a stage reborn each moonlit eve.