Shadows curling whispers that echo in the echoes perhaps not meant to be heard, echoes of what might have been, should have been... "Is this where the lost dreams go?" A question without an answer, or perhaps the answer is the question.
The curtain draws, not across a stage but a void, and the echoes sing songs of tomorrow that will never arrive.
What once was sandcastles become spectres beneath rainclouds as whispers linger in the twilight. The hourglass cracks, but only a little.
"Do shadows breathe?" they ask, mocking the silence that caresses the air like a forgotten lullaby.
The tick-tock of a clock owning no hands resonates, marking time that is simultaneously fleeting and eternal.