Upon the wall, the shadows dance, not with joy, nor with gloom, but with a silent lamentation governed by unseen hands. In this flickering darkness, words flow like mist upon the quiet sea.
In the corridor, an echo resounds, sculpted by the memories etched in sepia tones. A forgotten film rolls in fragments, scenes neither remembered nor drawn by light, only whispers of existence, shadows in retreat.
A man, silhouetted against the window’s pallor, gazes into the past, his expression a silent symphony of yearning. He recalls thoughts too vast for sound, memories tangled in celluloid dreams—desires of a time steeped in silver haze.
Journey further
The curtains shift in the gentle draft, revealing faces of long-lost kin—clouded figures whose eyes seek the warmth of reflection. They belong to the realm where whispers dare not venture, yet their presence is profound, humbling.
What remains of our shadows when the light is a distant memory? When the projector whirs no more, only the essence of being clings to forgotten frames, a story unable to break its bonds of darkness.
