The room was bright, but the warmth, it didn't seem to touch anything tangible. It hung in the air, a golden whisper. Sarah sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, tracing patterns above her knee—a knee that was, in truth, not her own.
"Sometimes," she murmured, "I feel like I'm dancing on the edge of a shadow," her voice a soft note among the amber glow. The vibrations she could no longer see, but feel, were tactile ghosts running their fingers along invisible strings.
She remembers a time where the echoes were bright, reverberating through the corridors of her mind like a melody...
As she spoke, the remembered touch of hands—a phantom limb's caress—drifted through the air, coaxing a smile. The air was enough, a spectral embrace wrapping around her.
She often wondered if these sensations belonged to her, or if they were whispers from another world, another being, caught in the same interplay between absence and presence.
The laughter of a friend, now just a story, yet still tangible in its resonance. Was it imaginary? Perhaps, but the sound felt real, as real as the breathing walls of the room around her.
Explore deeper echo chambers where memories intertwine with the surreal.