What remains of the whispers is a song encrusted in crystals, waiting for time's soft touch to erode its melody.
A reflection bends, breaks, and is reborn, only to find itself in an alien echo.
The sea of quiet thoughts stretches, undulating beneath surface whispers, seeking the horizon of forgotten selves.
Unearth, reconstruct, revere. Layers whisper histories seeping through fractured shelves.
Time, the silent architect, molds shadows upon the sands of dying thoughts.
In this gleam of surface lies the possibility of worlds hidden, awaiting their second sunrise.