When the sun dips below the horizon and the world is cast into twilight, shadows become the keepers of secrets. At night, when the city is still, these shadows whisper stories shared among forgotten trees and weathered stones. They speak of the things they’ve seen and the unseen forces they know, in a language as old as time itself.
In the quiet corners of your mind, where rational thought and childhood dreams meet, their voices linger. You can almost hear them now. Close your eyes, feel the weight of whispers heavy in the air, almost tangible, like breath against skin. Step gently, for the ground is littered with echoes of unremembered moments.
There's a story about shadows on the talk of early morning commuters—a tale of apparitions that once hovered near the old railway station. Some say it’s the work of spirits tied to that place, refusing to relinquish their hold on a realm they can no longer tread. Others shrug, dismissing such things as tricks of light and fog.
But when you linger here, under the pale defense of the street lamps, watching as the night breathes over the world, you'll understand. These stories are woven from truths not meant for daylight, existing somewhere in the bated breath between worlds.
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