Veil of echoes, remnants of laughter untold, slip through your fingers like grains of ancient sand.
Have you seen the clock that ticks backwards? It doesn't so much keep time as it does remind you of what will never be again.
Fragments of whispers... a mirror that reflects the future, the past never left its shadow. Birds, curious creatures, fly south to hidden secrets, not warmth.
The hallway stretches to infinity, or perhaps to none. At its end, a door with neither handle nor lock yawns open, revealing a nothing that has always been somewhere.
Once, a wise fool spoke: “Listen not to the silence, for it carries tales.” The wind scribes its own history in the skies, and we are but critics of a play yet to begin.