In the attic of a forgotten house, whispers gather like dust, stories wrapped in threadbare linens, forgotten yet waiting.
One could hear the echoes of laughter or perhaps the soft weep of midnight. Green light spills like liquid emerald painted over old echoes.
A cat with seven eyes perched on a crumbling staircase peers into the ever-expanding night, counting shades against whispers.
What is “home” if not a careful collection of moments masquerading as permanence? A dream cracked like glass reflects silence—until it shatters.
Do you remember the flower that bloomed at dawn only to wilt away by noon? Specters in the garden where roots tangle like memories lost.
Perhaps if you underline your regrets with lilac ink you'll remember the taste of shadowed nostalgia—sweet, yet clinging to bitter.
No one truly knows the feeling of the shoulders at dusk—watchful, robed in the layers of paint at a voiceless gallery.
Here reside realities smeared with essence, pushing us to discover the untold, buried below the surface of our own fleeting presence.
Where do the shadows go when they become transient? Do they dance among the stars, wrapped in cosmic fluff till dawn?
Join me in venturing to Forgotten Memories before the echoes fade!