In the twilight hours, the temple stood silent over forgotten lands. Here, memories folded upon themselves, creating echoes of whispers not heard for an age. The air carried a scent of reminiscence, a breath of time paused in observation.
Once, there was music—a melody that spiraled through corridors of consciousness. Now, only fragments remain, fragmented notes hidden within the soft murmur of leaves. They linger, weaving past and future into a tapestry cast in shadow.
Should you wander here, trace the whispers with your hands; feel their stories intertwine in the coolness of dusk. Reach out and grasp the twilight threads, weave them back into the tapestry of dreams allowed to fade.