Once upon a twilight, the stars danced behind curtains of night. Hold your breath, spoke the echoes, forever nameless. Down corridors of whispers, dreams leaked like melted ice on a summer’s afternoon. Shadows stretched like drowsy cats, yawning over the threshold to somewhere else.

The forgotten echoes sang, their song guttural yet tender, wrapped in a blanket of lonely moonbeams. I followed the thread of light, weaving through sleeping trees and paths frosted with forgotten whispers. Each step deeper into the unknown, the ground beneath pulsed like an aged heart—slow, deliberate.

Where do echoes go, when we are not listening? Do giants clutch them in their giant fists, or do they drift on sea winds, kissing the edges of dreams untold? A question unanswered, wrapped in twilight.

We ran, hands clasped, across the field of stars, igniting small constellations with each whispered wish. Beneath the ground, the cosmos slumbered, unaware of our waking touch. Their breaths were echoes, mirroring our own, in this raw wilderness of thought.

Echoes; echoes. Within each word, a world, holding the map in their rhythms. Listen closely, for the echoes remember what the heart dares to forget.