In the dim corridors of memory, there lies a path wrapped in the embrace of shadows. Echoes of laughter and sorrow intermingled, a symphony muted by the relentless march of time. The stones, damp and cold beneath touch, barely conceal secrets that languish in their cracks.
Here, the past clings like a persistent mist, unwelcome yet familiar, tracing the outlines of forgotten faces. Their eyes, once vibrant, now only mirrors reflecting the melancholy of a world oscillating between what once was and what should never be.
Among these walls, the air thickens with untold stories, suspended in their perpetual oscillation, haunting the corners where light dares not tread. The constant whisper of winds through broken panes speaks of a time when life flowed like a river, unbroken and timeless.
A clock ticks somewhere, hidden, yet its hands do not move forward; they move sidewise, endlessly, as the past and future converge in a dance of melancholy. The present, a fleeting shadow, captured in a moment of dark nostalgia.
Beyond these walls lies another realm, untouched by the passage of days, where moments freeze and memories find refuge. The constant remains, an eternal testament to the beauty of decay and the grace of withering.
Yet, in this constant, there is peace. For here, time whispers secrets in Gothic tones, the language of the night, the lost litanies of a world at rest.