Silence echoes through a corridor
where time folds over itself—a memory,
perhaps, that never quite was.
Amongst the refracted light shards
lies a riddle in a forgotten tongue:
"To where does absence belong?"
We assemble realities—not of what is,
but what could linger amidst shadows
and wishful thoughts—a dialogue with none.
Solitude unwraps these enigma-tied beliefs;
each constellation plotted lazily across
the parchment sky, whispers in its own void.