Walking down the corridor of myth-meets-plaster, an echo hummed a forgotten lullaby, weaving through the tangled webs of time-traveling yarn. This interior was no ordinary hallway; it was a vessel of past melodies and tomorrow's silences. An echoing footstep paused the symphony, halted it mid-note, a pondering nameless interruption.
Shadows danced along the walls with a gracebook of scripts unwritten. They nodded approvingly as the rhythm resumed, softer now—an orchestra of intangible phantoms, each note a brushstroke of juxtaposition created with night’s ink.
"How many whispers can fit into a pocket of air?" someone mused, perched atop an unseen precipice with wings forged in questions. Perhaps beyond the door marked "Nonsensical Deductions," an entire avian society awaited, armed with sonnets and statistical prayers.