In a time obscured by the veils of yesternights, where the breath of the cosmos tangles with reality's threads, there lies a hall. Its walls echo with tales not spoken — forgotten traditions whispering like distant stars calling from twilight.
Once, voices as soft as dew kissed the dreams of those who dared to tread beneath the flickering chandeliers of burdened memory. Traditions woven from whispers, shimmers of ancient dances, and laughter that rang like the twinkling of distant galaxies. Now, the hall stands silent, a canvas for ghosts of glee wrapped in silken shadows.
What were those stories sung by fervent souls, caught aloft in starlit reverie? Would you like to reach for them, like a child grasping at fireflies beneath a nebulous night?
Sometimes, we find remnants in the lines of forgotten books, or perhaps in faces lost to time's embrace, echoing in the whispers of autumn's breath.