Silent Shadows

It began with a whisper, a murmur in the corridors of lost thought. Fleeting echoes of a story yet to be told, trailing like shadows in the dawn.

Chapter 14, or perhaps it was 3.5, refrains from introduction: A world painted in echoes, forgotten motes of dust, suspended in time. The clock ticks, yet no hands encircle its face.

Beyond the veil, unseen voices call out, their melodies a lament for the lost and the never begun. Pages linger blank, their potential a silent promise.

The protagonist, whose name has never crossed lips, wanders the alleys of possibility. Here, every possibility remains a gentle illusion, a specter of what could be.

In the dystopian landscape of imagined realities, we find shadows seeking their own light. Shadows clothed in unanswered questions, polymorphs of desire and despair, ever elusive.

What remains are the faded echoes, remnants of a narrative's yearning for corporeal form, lingering in the essence of a forgotten dream.