In the twilight hour, when shadows dance and the world hums its lullabies, a voice trembles in the ink. It whispers tales untold, stories of forgotten echoes, remnants of dreams that never saw the dawn.
As I walk the corridors of memory, I stumble upon fragments—a silver key, rusted and warm in my palm; a door leading to nowhere, yet everyplace I have ever wanted to be. Each step echoes the murmur of leaves, the breath of the forest, the sigh of the sea at night.
The stars blink knowingly, their light a constellation of whispers etched in the fabric of the cosmos. And in that vastness, I find my heart, a silent drumbeat in an endless waltz.
Somewhere, a clock ticks backward, counting the moments lost in the sands of time. I reach out, fingers tracing the outline of a memory—a child's laughter, a lover's sigh, the comfort of being whole.
Follow the Murmurs