The moon hung, tentative, like a forgotten coin tossed into a treacherous well. The wind sang, as always, but this time its melody scraped against the stars, unwarranted harmony amid untouched night skies.
In the embrace of this serenade, the old town whispered back. Past the crumbling stone walls, the abandoned swings swayed slightly, an unseen hand dancing with unseen children—a lullaby of presence, where absence played the lead.
Underneath the surface of reality, truths trickled like rain through a porous umbrella, soaking earth with gentle despair. One would think the trees had something to say, but they were wise enough to keep their secrets nestled within rustling leaves whispered by voices unknown.
These streets, once brimming with fervor and dreams, lay now in a perpetual dusk, twilight capturing the town in its embrace. People walked, or rather floated, past each other—faces obscured by cotton-wool clouds of thought, moments suspended like ripples in a pond, endlessly echoing.
Cycle of Echoes Hymn of the Unseen Concord of Whispers