In the tapestry woven by ancient stones, the vibrations of a lover's whisper cling to the cool, damp air. Somewhere here, you find pieces of an uncompleted dream—a forgotten promise left curling at the edges like a parchment in the sun. The walls, adorned with creeping vines, cradle secrets only the wind remembers, tenderly sighing them through open arches, once doors, now merely invitations to a different kind of embrace.
The air is thick with the aroma of time itself, layered with the scent of blooming nothingness. Another testament, another unretrieved scent of jasmine lingering, abandoned in fleeting encounters. Steps echo where footsteps linger long after their owners have vanished—the imprint of souls makes footfall hymn.
A hidden doorway resides here, sealed by breath and the promise of what could have been. Your hand travels over the surface, anointing the unknown, gathering fragments of unsung symphonies lost between the mesmeric lull of contemplation and the clink of truth against façades long untouched.