The Last Echo

In the shadowy recesses of untold verses, where characters linger just beyond recognition, a wind howls the blues of a song never sung. It breathes life into pages left blank and writes with a feather dipped in twilight. The door creaked once, an echo reverberating in the corridors of forgotten dreams.

Once upon a mere reflection, a clock found itself yearning for hours untaken. In its ticking heartbeats, a story spun: The marble ocean glistened under no moon, the stars were merely whispers anchored in sky-fog.

A dialogue dampened by time:

Isolate: "Do you remember?"
Are: "Mycophyte, nocturnal."

Time paused upon the sigh—matter became notions, wandering like keys misplaced in dimensions.

The last echo neared, harmonized with murmurs of the interstice: systemically alien but hauntingly familiar. Eyes danced upon riddles, each depth echoing iterations of what was not and what will never be—Infinity's portrait.