The echoes murmur beneath the surface, beneath layers of lost intentions. Gentle hands, unseen, trace the contours of what once was and what could be again. Silence speaks, and in its depth, a song unfolds—an aria for the forgotten and the unborn.
They wander these corridors. Paths long buried. Unearthed beneath dreams, among the dust of obscure memories. Each solitary beam from a never-present sun flicks across specters that were never more than whispers themselves.
In the hollowed chamber residing in a place undefined, the walls breathe. They sigh. The histories we do not know bleed, as if they were eternally poised on the verge of say something, yet remain locked in their ethereal repose.