In the dim-lit hollow of a forgotten passageway, whispers of an unfamiliar melody drift like smoke. They dance with the shadows, teasing the edges of memory that aren't yours to begin with. It's a symphony born from echoes, a timbre that stretches beyond touch.
A phantom limb tugs at the invisible strings of your heart. Do you feel it? Someone asks, though the voice reverberates long after the question has been posed. You glance to the left, where the whisper bore a semblance of shape, yet find only the silhouette of dust motes in their eternal descent.
Somewhere in this labyrinth of echoes and unanswered questions, lies a truth waiting to be unearthed. Footsteps—those unseen companions—are never your own. They echo through corridors of thought as much as they do through corridors of stone. And perhaps, just perhaps, they belong to someone else altogether.
Follow the trails of sound, the notes in their reverie, through hidden faces and silent knights. Let them guide you.