The Whitish Veil of Memory
In the whitish expanse, shadows of yesteryears linger. Moments once tangible, now escape like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass. Have you seen the echoes whisper in corridors?
Fragments of conversations, half-heard and misplaced, weave through the mist. "Three quarters of a candle's light," she said, but who is she? Was there once a room filled with laughter, or is that just a vision borrowed from dreams?
Here lies the absence of something never held. An unspoken truth wrapped in the folds of time's tapestry. Does the past breathe the same air as the present, or do they exist in separate realms altogether?
In this space, every thought is a door opening into the unknown. What lies beyond the threshold? Perhaps a garden where the flowers sing in colors unnamed, or a sea of clouds where ancient odes are carved in mist.