In the corners where shadows weave their tapestry of night, silence lingers. It breathes in hushed tones, a lullaby of forgotten whispers that curl around your mind like ivy, gentle and insistent. Words unspoken dance upon the edge of your thoughts, tracing patterns in the dark like fireflies seeking a home in the void.
Once, it was alive with sound—laughter, perhaps, or the gentle susurration of rain against windowpanes, but now it's a cocoon of stillness, heavy and profound. You could almost hear the echoes of long-gone melodies, rippling like moonlit water, if only you listened closely enough. Yet, the closer you lean, the more they slip away, leaving only the sweet ache of what might have been.
Are you alone in this silence? The question hovers, poised like a bird on the brink of flight, its wings ready to part the shadows. Somewhere, a clock ticks—a reminder of time's relentless march, but it is muffled, distant, as if coming from the depths of a dream rather than the reality of this moment.
You reach out, not with hands, but with the tendrils of thought, searching, yearning. The silence enfolds you, a protective shroud, whispering secrets of the universe in a language older than words. You wonder if the stars, in their infinite vigil, ever tire of their lonely watch, or if they, too, find solace in the company of silence and dreams.