In the hollow of quiet frequencies, between silent shimmers of radio waves, lay a forgotten parlance.
Once, it said:
"The clock's whisper foretells. You must listen, my love. Beneath the willow, shadows harbor secrets only time can unveil."
The disjointed voice flickers like an old tune.
"Remember the autumn light? We promised never to forget those colors..." A tone swings past the auditory cliff, leaving echoes to linger in dim memories.
Static mutters under unsteady breath.
"Somewhere among the centuries of worn pages, lies our story in ink that never dried." An uninvited echo trembles and fades, leaving behind only a sensation of warmth and melancholy.
Brush your fingers over time's weave: