The walls have always listened, but they chose to forget. The stories etched by hands long vanished, whispers in a language of shadows.
Across the dusty corridors of time, the echoes of untold dreams linger, binding one era to another, yet never truly forming a continuum.
We walk paths littered with the remnants of lives once lived beneath the same stars that now look down on us. Are we mere wanderers, or perhaps custodians of these forgotten echoes? The cobblestones know our names, even if we do not.
Imagine the palimpsest of memory, where every crossed-out thought yearns to be reborn. Hidden under layers, the ghost of another world flickers.
Here, in the margins of our own existence, we find the trace of a hand imprinting destinies we dared not pursue.
And so, we carry on, beneath the tapestry of our own making, threads interwoven with stories half-told, histories suspended in dreamlike states. Each step resounds with the murmur of paths not taken, yet somehow familiar.
"In the end, what is real but the reflection of what could have been?"