It was in the twilight hours, when the world holds its breath, that the Wasserman strolled through the empty halls of memory. His presence was a whisper in the wind, a ghost among the living, speaking in tongues unknown, yet intimately familiar. The walls carried his echo, a silent scream trapped in the fabric of time.
The streets below bore witness to his journey, under the watchful gaze of a crescent moon. No soul dared cross his path, though few knew he was there at all. He walked as one burdened with secrets, the kind only shadows understand. Beneath the surface, beneath the conscious thought, another world existed—a realm of silent arcs and unvoiced wishes.
Unvoiced Conversations lingered in the corridors, echoing like an unfinished symphony. People, if they could see, would understand the gravity of his steps, the meaning hidden in every pause, every silent plea for understanding.
Somewhere in the depths, a faded dialogue awaited. Words too heavy to speak, too fragile to touch, hung in the air. Their broken meanings danced just out of reach, forming a tapestry of existence, of withheld truths and realities unimagined.