In the library of fragmented yesterdays, where the words once whispered secrets of sunrise, pages fold upon themselves, revealing the dreams of unwritten stories, etched in shadows. Turn the page and lose your shadow in the echo.
Do the clocks remember the time they forgot? Or the rivers wept by histories never lived? Drop your echo in corridors of time and listen to what never was.
A tapestry of unwoven stars hangs above, each thread a memory long untangled: Woven Silence, where the night speaks in layers of void.
The essence of existence reflected in a puddle of reflection, where visions bleed into the paper of reality: a forgotten manuscript, a dream in sleep's embrace.
Tomorrow, they said, lies beyond the edge, a field of eclipses where no sun dares rise.