It begins with the whispers, echoes in a room devoid of people; each step reverberates a memory long buried, borrowed from the fringes of dreams. Drops of night caress the edges of a forgotten portrait, eyes that never blinked, shadows that dance, yet remain still. Defiant against the march of time, these thoughts swirl in currents too vague to capture, like smoke slipping between fingers.
The air thickens, like syrup, with sighs barely audible. "Do you remember?", spoken in solitude, beneath flickering streetlights; a voice that isn't yours lingers just outside the conscious grasp. Fragments of existence collide, woven from the strands of déjà vu, those moments suspended in dreaming fables. Shadows murmur softly; the past extends its tendrils, threading into the present.
Underneath it all, a sensation of being both here and not, a phantom existence on the margin of reality. Listen closely—the soft decay of laughter, the faint rustle of pages from an unwritten tome, whispers telling stories that would unravel the very fabric of day.