_"The echoes never died,"_ she whispered, _"they merely await our recognition."_ The fog curled around the words like a hesitant embrace.
He paused, contemplating the silence that followed. _“Are we speaking to ghosts, or are we merely tracing our own shadows?”_
In the distance, a clock struck thirteen times, signaling an hour out of sync with reality. The walls of the corridor seemed to lean in, eager to listen.
_“Who sends the signals?”_ she wanted to know. _“Is it the past trying to relay a message, or the future calling us back?”_
Somewhere, a door creaked open, revealing a glimpse of twilight. A universe, perhaps, where yesterday bled seamlessly into tomorrow.
These ghostly relays, whispered as if to not disturb the sleeping world, were threads woven into the tapestry of time. _“We are but channels,”_ he murmured, _“receiving what was always meant to be heard.”_