Dim dust, fettered bows, the autographs of a forgotten orchestra pierce the air, curling and unfurling—snippets of life bathed in sonance. "They whispered stories." And for a fleeting moment, time intertwines. Eyes wide with curiosity, a hand caresses the worn keys embodying springs of anguish or joy—each brush evokes a reverberation lost beneath the fog of moments never lived.
An old phraseless tune swirls like smoke from a parted window; it felt as palpable as the tender sorrow of irises left to mourn the sun, each note bleeding color onto a canvas woven with memory. Shadows mutter and hop along the edge; a child rehearses dreams scrawled in arcane script yet unread. Oh! Do I see shadows learning to standalone?
"Listen. They sing." Spooling intentions rattle like clattering dice, where each clink hints at predestined outcomes split by fate. Ghostly figures loom forth when chords are strummed; they shape moments—lifelines twisting through dim-lit corridors, dancing to the requiem of choices made.
A pair of fluted voices hangs suspended like sheer silk, 'To my lover, under cobalt stars, I summon you back.' To that, the universe courses in pace—