Tracing the edges, the whispers dapple the night with echoes of untold stories. A thread pulled from darkness, weaving patterns unseen, heard only when standing still in the twilight.

There is a lace, a web not spun by arachnids, but a weave from time itself, each strand a memory, each knot a forgotten dream. Fingers dance along the filigree, each touch a soft murmur, a gentle plea for remembrance.

And what tales do the shadows tell, when laced with moonlight and mist? Of journeys untaken, of paths that diverged under autumn's sigh. Listen closely, for the echoes are but a breath away.

Follow the Echoes Silence Speaks