The Gate to the Immemorial Vale

The sun bled amber upon the cold steel frames of the forgotten carousels. The scent of peppermint lingered, haunting as the vaudevillian laughter of once unseen specters. Do you remember the aseptic halls where whispers grew like moss, clinging to the corners of shadows?

Through the dusty windowpanes, the rain illuminated secrets etched by passing dreams. Recollect the time when violets grew in hieroglyphs upon the kitchen's alabaster table? In those moments, even silence echoed with the octaves of forgotten symphonies.

Each corridor scented oddly with burnt sugar, unraveling white linens in the hazy afternoon light. A dog’s bark displaced by the waltzing frames of prose, history interspaced by forgotten lullabies and stories not wholly told.