Look around, and you might see them—the silhouettes of what could have been. History recoils, revealing ghostly fragments through the haze of dust and twilight. They are meticulous specters of an unwalked future—a tapestry of choices left to the evolution of time. Silent paths unwind beneath diluted suns, tracing epochs not yet outlived.
The roads beckoned to Caralyn with promises wrapped in satin veils—a past borrowed, belonging not to the forger of flames but to the forgotten dreamers. Yesterday writ its omnipotent decree, yet today stirs and laughs in the sepulcher of missed breaths. In those moments, time elongates, capturing eternity's whispers like petrified raindrops in sunlight.
Walk onward, and the retroflection grows: aging phones resonate with unspoken texts from a twisted karma—the vibration, a continuous requiem echoing from another world. Data streams like spectral rivers, lost dimensions seeking and finding root in the present's multiplex ephemeralia.
When dawn breaks over convolution, who speaks for the eras unborn? In the dusk of history undone, we find our hymns carved into cosmic grains of inevitable wisdom.