Beneath layers of midnight whispers, the ... phantasmagoric tales brush the seashells resting within the blank spaces of time. Here, silence does not ask for motion, it harbors footsteps that wish not to be traced, leaving only mere shadows of sound that drift through the canvas of spirit.
In every breath of the unseen winds, a hymn whispers into existence; the press of ghostly fingers aching to engrave songs upon a tablet untouched. Sublime, the resonance catches itself within archives unknown, spilling over as dew accumulates on the edge of eternal dawn.