The Murmurs of Time

In the dim light of a morning unclaimed, where shadows stretch like memories reaching for the forgotten, the ink begins to speak. Each drop, a universe; each line, a bridge over silent waters.

We are but echoes, rebounding from the walls of time, reverberating through the corridors of our own making. Do you hear the whispers? They murmur of things left unsaid, of paths not taken, etching their presence into the fabric of now.

Here, beneath the surface, lies a landscape painted with regrets and dreams, where the past paints the sky in hues of what could have been and might yet still be. Reflection is a mirror, and the soul its glass.

And as we stand at the edge, looking into the depths, we find solace in the silence, comfort in the void, and a strange kind of peace in the endless echo of untold sagas that linger just out of reach.