"Once heard on sun-drenched terraces, the breeze carried the song away..."
In forgotten corners of dust-thickened attics, among cobwebbed tomes of exquisite silence, lie the remnants of melodies unsung. Each note, a ghost, a whisper of a time untold and forgotten by all but the wind. They murmur stories of gatherings in the dusk, colors bleeding into twilight, where laughter mingles with a fragrant haze of jasmine and aged wood. To hear them is to reach into the spinning cosmos of memory, where every chord strikes upon the heartstrings like the gentle touch of a long-lost friend.
The old village well remembers. The stones, worn smooth by the hands of those who sought fortune and favor, cradle the echoes of that significant song. Once, it was sung to herald a shifting season, a presence unseen, felt only in the rustle of leaves and the deepening of shadows. Would you listen closely, you might find it there, hidden in the interstices between sighs and silent starlit promises.
The Echo's Dance