Between the eclipses of tomorrow and yesterday, a soundless echo bursts forth: “I will whisper your name into the folds of time.” It lingers, sharing its secret with no one, as if the universe were cloaked in an invisible veil stitched from pastel twilight.
Do you remember the crimson trails, the agonizing beauty of whispers left in the aftermath of never-ending choices?

“They are staring,” the thought cascades like autumn leaves unfurling secrets in syncopated symphonies. Her gaze unravels the world, leaving ethereal imprints, punctuated by gasps like the distant rhythm of cosmic heartbeats. In the tangles of galaxies and whispers, remnants of being flicker like dying stars.

Twilight presides, and the hum of forgotten lullabies echoes from time's shaded corners. The pulse resonates in color, painting the silence bright azure as the wave of memory washes over a fragile realization.
"We were here." An assertion both tangible and circumvented; echoes in kaleidoscope, like leaves cast to dance upon infinity's hand.