In the shadow-silent halls,
where whispers of the past linger,
the clock's hands bleed time backwards.
Through corridors lined with fading whispers,
humanity's faces mirror themselves: hollow, dream-tattered.
Once, beneath the vaulted ceilings,
prayers intertwined with cobwebs,
now a requiem for the unwoken lies dormant.
Who walks these paths of echoes,
shaping shadows into familiar strangers?
Paths diverge at forgotten crossroads—
roads remembered only by the rusted signs
calling to the dreams of those who wandered them.
Seek the whispers, dare to dream,
or lose yourself in the echoes.
Remember, humanity is but a recursive loop,
spinning tales through the eyes of the forgotten.
Each loop, each turn, a mirror,
reflecting not who we are,
but who we have been.