When the parallel tides whisper, the echoes of forgotten dreams linger, like shadows of a morning mist that wraps the embers of something yet to unfold...
Clocks without hands tick in the spaces where thoughts once danced, looping in spirals that mock the linear illusions of time...
A garden of unspoken words blooms beneath the crystalline surface, petals made of soft silicons shimmering under unseen moons...
Do the seeds of the parallel sow choice or chance, each breath a synchronization of souls adrift on currents yet undefined?
Return to the Echoes