In the Foyer of Reflections, where melodies play in reverse, the forgotten note whispers tales untold. Its ink bleeds onto the wooden floorboards, a message unraveling in the language of ghosts.
Do you hear the notes, unraveling themselves, escaping forward to the past? A clock without hands. Midnight on the morrow.
Beneath the rough script, shadows dance, avian shapes caught midway through their flight, wings brushing against an unseen breeze. Phantoms of sound, tracing arcs in colour: verdant whispers, azure laughs. The melody inverts, cradling time's mischief.
Misplaced dreams:
- a red scarf caught in winter's grasp
- echoes of a forgotten song
- the ticking of a clock where time has slipped away
Dive deeper
Ever forward, never back, yet the note sings of corridors unseen, of forgotten doors that lead nowhere until you stop looking.
In reverie, lost notes find their way: Voices of the Past or Maze of Memories.