"And lo, the whispers gather and form, like mist upon the cold morning's breath. As each syllable fades, another is born anew, singing the songs of a thousand sunsets, sighing sonnets to the moonlit night, the echo reflects time’s delicate touch."
* Whence does the forgotten voice emerge? Is it the shadow of a time not yet lived, or perhaps a recollection you dare not remember... *
In the chiaroscuro of memory's embrace, she stands – the lady in lavender lace, whose eyes hold the secrets of the ancients. "Forevers are composed of nows," she whispers, as her silhouette dissolves into eternity's gentle breath.
"They glided past the chamber of reverberating echoes, heedless of tomorrows' uncertainty," he confessed, "for in the present, they danced under celestial strings, woven by hands both tender and unseen."