In the corridors of time, where moments dissolve into echoes, there lies a question unasked. Do shadows remember the shapes they mold, or do they simply stretch and yawn, unthinking witnesses to the passage of light?
The spiral staircase descends lightly beneath our tread, yet leaves no mark. Here, at the intersection of shadows and light, every step is both creation and erasure: a phantom footstep that answers to no owner.
Perchance the hollow echo finds solace in its own reverberation, a symphony of absence playing to a silent audience. The rhythm of footsteps—yours, mine—fades into the symphony, a note in an unfinished aria.