Whispers melt like wax, pooling in shadows, beneath the ancient arches where eyes do not see... Fragments of a forgotten hymn echo through the twisted corridors of the mind.
The bodies of dreams are strewn upon the cobblestones, faceless, nameless, yet etched in the fabric of your passing glance. Time unfurls, a dark helix spiraling into the abyss.
Beneath the chapel's stained glass—the color of despair—lies a secret...", she murmurs, clutching a withered bouquet. The chapel sings, but no one hears the song.
The pale moon drapes itself over the stones, cloaking the night in spectral attire, dancing on the whispers of forgotten lore.
In the garden of dying echoes, a single petal falls—red as the silent screams lost in the wind. Here lies the tapestry of feynman, unspoken yet undeniably real.