Sometimes the echoes, broken glass and petal-soft sighs, flutter against the ear. What stories linger where shadows merge?
An old clock ticks, the hands spin - a shimmering dance, or perhaps a phantom's waltz in the twilight of remembrance.
Do leaves remember their ancestry, rustling through dreams, touching the heartbeat of a forgotten spirit?
The wall cracks philosophically, each fissure housing silent dialogues between ghosts of intentions lost... welcome.
Visit variations of in-between here: Secrets of the Scribe, Garden of Echoed Whispers.