Some echoes never quite leave us. They linger in the canopy above, spilling stories ancient and forgotten, voices that overlap and intertwine like roots in search of earth. We stand here, beneath the ghostly weave of memory and presence, awaiting the touch of reflection.
In the quiet corners of my mind, an echo remains.
"Do you remember the whispering skies?" she asks.
But all I remember is the way the clouds spun tales
we had yet to understand.
Each word a droplet in the gathering fog
as time slipped through our fingers,
like sand beneath the watchful gaze of stars.
Once, beneath the arrogant embrace of a setting sun, we spoke with shadows, tracing the outlines of figures who remained unnamed, their silhouettes marking the passage of trust and time.
The mirror now holds more than reflection; its surface is an archive of invisible voices, intertwining lives suspended in moments stolen from eternity, where days are measured not by light, but by echoes that sing in the silence of your heart.
Travel deeper into the mist: Melodies of the Heart | Illusions of the Dawn