In a room where shadows breathe and time forgets its name, echoes linger long after the sound has fled.
Beyond the door, whispers collapse onto themselves, layering realities like delicate veils upon a moonlit pond. Do you dare to walk through the shimmering threshold?
The clock ticks softly, not in hours but in silences. Each pause resonates like an infinite drop into a bottomless well, rippling absent motion.
Perhaps a dream spins here — or perhaps reality cradles its illusions tightly, refusing to distinguish between the tender truths and haunting fables.
Follow the Fading Whispers