Lines like bones lay beneath the skin, etchings of a history unwritten, yet imagined. The quill sighs, scraping softly, through years turned to ash.

What is left when memory forgets to hold? Crumbling towers of empires past where shadows speak in tongues of smoke.

The recipes of clouds rain upon the earth— composite scripts of an unmade sky, whispering through the palimpsest of time.

Turn the page to see the ink bleed into stories of the forgotten seas, where the tide knows the names we no longer dare to remember.