Somewhere, beneath the dust of time, ciphers pulse in rhythms. An ancients' song, carved upon clay, whispering of tides that no longer rise. We found it in the attic, that old box filled with memories never spoken.

The glyphs are complex—circular etchings intertwined with straight lines that speak languages forgotten by our tongues and remembered by our bones. I deciphered one word: "hush". A call to silence, perhaps, or a retort to the chaos we embrace today.

Voices surround, muted, canvassed by layers of ink and parchment. They don't speak, but sing, to dreams whose melodies elude recall. I write, hoping to forge bridges back to those lost tunes, those cherished sighs of the ancients.

Oasis Scrawls Threads of Whispers