In the dusty corners of the mind, where time coils around the whispered remnants of thought, lies a manuscript untouched by the hands of light. Each word is a shadow; each page, a specter of stories left unspoken.
Reflective echoes speak in tongues, etching the memories of who we were into the fabric of the now. Like the tide, they recede and flow, revealing fragments of a narrative woven in silence and solitude.
As the ink fades under the weight of starlight, whispers remind us of paths untaken, inviting with a gentle hand the exploration of hidden recesses—those chambers where eternity pauses to listen.