The Echoes of Forgotten Whispers

Time flows not like a river but like a stream of droplets, each remembering, in its own way, the path it took. I hear echoes of a time when the air was different, charged with static possibility. "Did we really go there?"

Sometimes, in the quiet hours, I catch glimpses of what was left unsaid. A forgotten telephone call at 2 AM, the voice trembling through the static. I know it was important, but the details slip away like sand through fingers, as if they were never meant to be grasped tightly.

Hollow bookshelves filled with volumes untold, the smell of old paper, like a breath of the past itself, whispers secrets lost to the winds. "Turn the page," they say, "but be wary of what you find."

Turn the page and walk the corridors where shadows linger, or linger among the echoes of voices that never quite touched reality.