The portal hums not with electric promise but the ancient vibrations of forgotten avenues.
Consider the brave, those who enter. Do they find more than an echo of themselves?
Is memory truly a realm, its walls built by the unseen hands of longing?
Why does the absence reach so far into presence's fabric?
Time isn’t lost—merely, it’s displaced by invisible limbs that tease the known boundaries.
Each step inward reverberates as a question etched across the velvet canopy of night.
An clasp of spectral fingers, answering silently, relentless in their phantom rhythm.
Souls often conjure their twins, reflections less seen than felt, haunting the reachable.
In this place, paradoxically tangible and lily white, solace knows no physical form.