In the dim-lit corridors of memory, the pulse of a touch—an unseen brush against the skin—echoes with a whisper. It trails like a ghost along the back of the neck, a phantom's caress lingering from a world once tangible, now just a shimmering haze.
Do you recall the labyrinthine paths woven by fingers long since withdrawn? The invisible paths they traced in the air around you? Here, in the quiet, every step is accompanied by these remnants, ghostly vibrations that echo through time and space.
Each phantom sensation draws a figure in the dark—a silhouette of longing, a memory of a moment never fully grasped yet eternally present. Their voices are soft, like the rustle of leaves in a gentle wind, as they beckon you further into the realm of the unseen.