The old clock ticks backward in the corridor of a childhood home. The floors remember the laughter of children, ghosts playing hide and seek in transience, while the walls hold secret conversations in languages known only to them.
A figure stands at the window, gazing at the rain that falls like memories unspooled. Hands pressed against glass, they listen for voices that never come, echoes of a life untraveled, paths diverged on the brink of dreaming forests.
An owl sings, its melody steeped in moonlight and solitude. Stars hum in silent symphony, veils of shadow intertwining with threads of time. Who speaks to whom in these hollow halls? Do we speak to the past, or the future whispers to us?
Faintly stirring, the phantom voices call, in windswept tones and echoes of thrall. Within the mist, expectant sighs, raise shrouded dreams and sepulchered cries.
Steps echo in shadowed recesses, each footfall a reminder of existence that drifts like smoke. The attic smells of dust and secrets, opened boxes beneath cobwebbed ceilings reveal nothing more than mere silence, yet hold worlds within imaginations scattered like postcards across time.
Whispers linger in the corners of forgotten rooms. The shadows shift, sigh, and listen, each moment suspended in twilight. Perhaps here, in this woven tapestry of silence and sound, the stories of who we might have become rest, waiting for an open heart and mind to breathe them back into being. empty mirrors and fading illusions...