Between whispered echoes, shadows of an unwritten past linger — a place where erasure is art, and the canvas breathes the afterglow of faded ink.
Once upon uncharted tales, the cities of sand remembered raindrops as they traced spirals in the sky, ancestors of the ocean’s stories.
The clock ticks both ways in this realm; time is a suggestion, hastily scribbled over with a forgotten alphabet of stars.
And in this tapestry, the dichotomy unfurls: an unspoken rhythm that dances on the knife edge of what was and what whispers ever after. Listen to the silence speak here.
The past is a stratified dream, a palimpsest of eroded histories; follow the old footprints into the mirror’s reflection.
The secret lies beneath layers of ether, somewhere between the twilight and the dawn. In the twin worlds they once called home, every echo is a ghost, and every shadow, a song.