You stand at the convergence of nothing and nostalgia. Eyes half-closed, you witness the intersection of shadow and light, of silence and resonance. It's a symphony of echoes spoken in languages invisible to the waking world.
Memories fragment and reassemble in the dark corners of thought. Each shadow cast is a reminder of something that might have been, whispers of paths untrodden. We are, after all, but an accumulation of places where our presence was once imagined.
A shadow passes through a window never opened.
Where do phantoms dine when the rest are asleep? In the best-kept secrets of midnight doors, perhaps. Their laughter colliding with our dreams, stitching a tapestry of unseen worlds.
Leave the realm of the recognized...
In this liminal space, the ground beneath you murmurs stories of the unknowing. The phantoms dance — not in sight, but in the peripheral edges of your heart. Touch them just once, and watch them dissolve like morning mist.