Memory, an iframe across dimensions, where shadows bear stories impossible to decipher.
Who speaks? The echoes carry nothing but the weight of unsaid words suspended in time.
A frost forms in the corners of perception, blurring the faces of what has been and what will.
Between the quiet and the outcry, telepathic snippets intermingle; can you grasp fading realities?
Fragments stir: we are not our memories, but echoes of thoughts comfort under sheets of ice.