In the domain where whispers become light, she traversed the void of unspoken thoughts.
Across the azure plains of imagination, the scent of bygone dreams lingered sweetly.
His reflection awaited at the horizon, shadowed by an eternity of unsaid words.
Does the moon keep a diary in the language of tides?
Escaping the labyrinth, you might find solace in these forgotten whispers, or perhaps they beckon: