In the labyrinth of my mind, corridors weave tales untold. Each twist and turn a memory, a face half-remembered. Why does time dance like shadows on the walls?

The clock ticks, yet here it holds no dominion. Even the stars that peek through the fabric of dreams wear ancient guises, their whispers laced with melancholy.

They said the patterns spoke, but only to those who dared listen. My ears caught mere echoes—the sigh of the universe, a gentle reminder of absence.

Beneath each layer of dust lies a story, each grain a universe of its own. We become guardians of forgotten histories, archivists of the silent.