In a world woven from the threads of unheard sonatas, the echoes hold court. They are guardians of whispered secrets and lost dreams, entangled in the reverberations of time. Each echo, a tapestry of sound, woven by the hands of silent specters.
Here lies the paradox: to hear an echo is to unhear it. Time folds back on itself, a cruel jester laughing at the folly of those who seek permanence in the transient. Memories dance like shadows in a moonlit grove, fading into the ether before they are born.
Trace the melody back to silence Enter the chamber of eternal reverberations