The night was a tapestry woven with threads of void and sound. As I traversed the shadow-laden streets, figures flickered at the edge of perception, indistinct and elusive as mirages—a continuum of memory.
Voices nestled in the undertones, their words cryptic and weighted—an oracle's murmur enticingly diverging from the mere echo of what once was. Future further unfoldings whispered these truths, barely a shadow.
Clarity faltered; circumstances dog-eared a myth, where each page turned revealed lost days in forgotten texts. Between each line lay a sound, a tone, tangible and haunting, as if the cosmos were tuned to a lament.