Echoes of voices like mist in a reverlie, drifting on the edge of perception, calling your name.

Once we were somewhere, in a place defined by the orange tang of nostalgia, and now the shadows linger as silhouettes shy from light.

The moon, a silent observer, painted across the darkness of unfilled pages, where constellations form words in languages unknown.

The roads twist like thoughts, unanchored and fluid, leaving traces of dreams shed like feathers in forgotten dawns.

Do you remember the forest where trees whispered secrets meant for broken clocks? Time unwound there, like unraveling skeins of fate.

And the whispers called again, leading you through twisted corridors lined with past hopes, now just echoes under layers of celestial dust.