Ancient Echo

In the cracks of time's fingers, whispers fall between guarded secrets. The palimpsests of eras untold trace forgotten pilgrimages. Pages not yellowed, merely worn down:

Once, the Temple of Gossamer Shadows rose above the mist. Now it is nothing but layers of dust. Its stones, cold and indifferent, cradle dreams that bleed, beacons of starlight fading into earth.

An oracle speaks through traces, her voice a threadbare tapestry. She shares memories rewritten by nimble fingers, memories whitewashed with ink that screams of the unsaid:

The echo remains steadfast—echoes revealing echoes. It rests, a spectral guide, in the marrow of marrow. Reflect upon these pensum: whispers recall, histories glimpse.

Outside time, the marks remain—silent, sovereign secrets waiting to be relearned. Thus we wander, woven into the vertex of a forgotten conversation.