In this solarium of bygone whispers, where shadows weave intricate tapestries upon the sunlit marble, I find your touch etched in the sacred glow of each lingering beam.
These memories are the whispers of twilight, caught between the nights of longing and the dawns of reality. Do they tremble, afraid of the echoes once more becoming tales of solitude?
Through every candle flicker, I see our past sailing on invisible currents, a clandestine rendezvous with our dreams resting beyond the horizon. The garden beyond whispers names unknown, calling to the tender fragments of our history.