I sense it, a whispered caress where none should linger, a breeze of woven memories yet untouched. The phantom's fingers trace paths across forgotten shores of bone and will, crafting choice into mist, as dark as the void between stars.
These echoes remember silhouettes, once vivid, now cloaked in shadows of my own making. They speak in tongues of silence, their messages carried on the rustle of dead leaves. Listen closely, and you might hear the whispers guide you to doorways long sealed.
Do you recall how it was to feel the world in full, every thread taut with intention? Now, it is but a memory, mournful and sweet. Yet still those unseen fingers play along the edges of ciphers only a heart might wish to decipher.
Embrace the whispers, let them draw you into the weave of their intricate dance. For in their trail lies not a map, but a revelation of presence, of belonging, to a truth lost in the echo of its absence.
Here, where visibility falters at the brink of night, the phantom limbs of what once was or could be, whisper soft, insistent, their secrets unsaid.