In silent corners, where echoes dare not tread, the whispers linger. Chronicles stitched of shadow and whispered breath, floating on the edges of light. A time before time knew its own name, a time where silence spoke in volumes.
The walls cradle these secrets like a mother cradles her sleeping child. Dreams borne of dusk, tales sketched in the ink of absence, remembered only by those brave enough to listen.
Has the moon listened, perched high above in a solitude of its own? Or is it the stars who read from this tome of shadows, understanding words unspoken in the tongues of forgotten dawns?
Ephemeral Truths Neverending Lucidity