In the trembling dusk where shadows linger and the sky bleeds indigo, the earth sheds its crusty skin. Beneath the surface, in the womb of forgotten time, whispers of long-lost epochs emerge—fragile and trembling.
Once, in the silent depths, dreams slept within layers of sediment, encased like amber in fossilized hush. They murmur now, echoing through the forgotten corridors of existence, speaking in a tongue that pricks at the edges of memory.
These echoes bear witness to the stories buried deep, to the voices swallowed by time and space, unraveling threads of past lives, lives woven into the tapestry of night.
Among the scattered bones of worlds undone, a silence sings, a song of what was, what never was, and what could still be. A song that haunts the heart of the earth and the skies above it.
As you read these words, know that you stand at the threshold of time's doorway. The whispers beckon you to listen, to feel the pulse of ancient memories as they slip through your grasp, like sands of time, leaving only echoes in their wake.
Follow the Whispers