In the hushed corners of existence, where whispers dance in quiet tones,
an echo forms—a resonance sculpted from the fabric of time itself.
It speaks in murmurs, of paths never walked, of dreams once cherished,
now merely shadows in the hands of night.
We listen, not with ears, but with the silence that surrounds
the spoken words we dare not say aloud.
Each silence, a note in a melody forgotten by the stars,
each pause, a step in the waltz of fate and choice.
Beneath this serenade of shadows lies a truth,
woven by the hands of time, sculpted from the echoes
of a universe that sings not of glory, but of existence itself.
Here, in this quietude, we find ourselves—lost, yet found.