Between dusk and dawn, where the stars weave tales in the tapestry of night, a gentle whisper calls. It does not ask, nor demand. It beckons, a soft echo fading into the silence of forgotten dreams.
In these passages, time unravels, a delicate strand spun by cosmic fingers. The echoes wait, nestled in the folds of silence, yearning for a voice. A voice that remembers the touch of starlight on skin, the sigh of a breeze carrying the scent of ancient forests.