Sometimes, when the wind carries the trees' gentle whispers, we find ourselves lost in the contemplation of what lies within the unspoken words between hanging branches and bustling leaves.
The clock ticks—steady, reliable, yet always a little ahead of the moment—reminding us of promises untouched, paths unwalked, questions unasked. Here, within the echo of time, lives a maze without ends, familiar and foreign, inviting and repelling.
In a quiet corner of an unnamed library, an aged volume dusted with years recounts tales of the unsaid: love letters hidden beneath floorboards, words of comfort irretrievably bottled in silence. Stories unravel—interwoven threads of what could be, distilled from what actually is.