Did you ever wonder, in the labyrinth of forgotten texts, what stories the dust might tell?
She walked barefoot on ancient tiles, each step echoing a history not her own.
Somewhere, the wind whispered names—once spoken, now lost in time's relentless current.
Fragments of a once-vibrant tapestry, woven by hands obscured in myth.
Our lives, a model of shadows upon shadows, the unseen specter of what was.
Erase, and yet, the imprints remain, a palimpsest in the soft clay of memory.