In the stillness beyond the glass—beyond the edges that mirror tales of forgotten dusk—
speaks a silent voice. Each shatter, a whisper, echoes the story that never was, yet always is.
1910: A figure glides past the window, their silhouette tracing the dance of shadows.
In their hand, a flower; a symbol of what? Mystery, perhaps. Or loss.
Reverberations follow, softly tainted by sorrow.
Glances exchanged upon a street of cobblestones, each one a reflection on the stagnant pond
of memory. Beyond the echo, the fractured
murmurs of dreams long disheld.
1925: The camera pans, capturing the void where laughter once was. Each frame, a window into an unspoken tale, now rendered incomplete by time's indifferent touch.
Breathe, and the past reverberates, a miasma of broken whispers and distant calls to the forgotten. Yet in these shattered reflections, perhaps a new story stirs, waiting to be penned anew.