Between the folds of time lies a whispering path, often traveled by shadows and reminiscences. It is here, within the echo of a phantom's touch, that the portal sits—a gateway predicate shifting in ambiance.
Your senses perceive it as a rush of color, a transient dance upon the periphery of sight. Leaves don the hue of old memories, curling in spirals of untold truths. The air speaks: "The world is but a canvas, smeared with the fragments of dreams yet unsaid."
There exists an untouched book of ivy and fog, where each page curls and fades like the echo of a child's laughter in an empty hall. Here, a tactile word—"Portal"—etches itself across ghostly membranes.
The tactile paradox unfolds: whose fingers danced, whose thumbprints mar the ephemeral loveliness?