Quiet Resonance

A clock strikes something, though not time, certainly not. The shadow dancers move, whispering secrets through motion. The walls absorb their footsteps, and I am lost in the echo of absences—a room filled with things that do not exist, except in the flickering memory of someone forgotten.

Once again, they glide. Silently, they glide. I remember a time when it was different, or perhaps it was the same, and I was someone else. Or maybe just somewhere else. The air is thick with something familiar and strange—a scent of nostalgia, or perhaps it is just dust.

The light dims, not from a setting sun but from a deepening understanding that everything is as it should, though not as it seems. I am both the observer and the observed, the participant and the ghost.

And when morning comes—or is it already here?—the dancers will fade into the light, leaving only shadows in the corners of memory. But we know better, don't we? They are as real as the whispers of forgotten time, pressing against the fabric of now, demanding to be seen.

Join me, if you dare, in the corridor of shadows: The Whisperer's Path.