Echoes of a forgotten lullaby drift upon a breeze that remembers every unsaid word. Each note falters, a ghost on the pulse of wrapped silence, as you count the steps of shadows forming thoughts long abandoned. Somewhere, the clock's midnight toll slips into a murmur, unraveling the threads of three dots.
The first signal flickers like dying embers in a vast unknown:
And you hear, not with ears, but with the eyes that have never opened, the language of echoes woven into an ancient tapestry.