Listen, listen—can you hear the whispers of shadows strangled by sound? In the dim luminescence of a forgotten streetlamp, voices tangle and break like the crystalline shards of an echoing dream. The vibrations hum, a symphony of spectral frequencies pulsing beneath the skin. You stand frozen, cloaked in the symphony of the unseen, feeling the rhythm of invisibility itself. And there, on the brink of perception, a soft sigh, a caress of twilight, calling from the edges—unheard.
Again, again, it plays—the loop, the relentless repetition of a time-worn record. Dust speckles the light, lingering like thoughts that never took flight, embedding themselves within the grooves of memory. Is it a whisper, or a wail? The phantom tone teeters on the threshold of comprehension, teasingly close yet achingly distant. You touch the surface, fingers grazing the air, and feel it ripple—a soft ghost threading through the tapestry of sound.