In the corridors of an old building, the echoes tell stories of footsteps that once marked the presence of untold lives. These sound waves bounce off painted canvases hung on forgotten walls, each whispering a memory of the life that once was.
The air shimmers, though not with light, but with the presence of invisible edges. These are not boundaries that you can touch, but limits of perception woven into the very fabric of the space. It's as if the walls breathe a silent sigh, reluctant to reveal secrets buried in time.
Every now and then, a gust of wind slips through the slender gaps, carrying with it a breath of history—a scent of lavender, the rustle of silk, or the distant sound of a ticking clock. The past lingers here, not as a specter, but as an echo, gentle and persistent.
Whispering Traces Imprints on Their Journey