In the quiet corners of existence, whispers are the echoes of what could have been. Conversations unfinished, dreams chased yet never caught. Time weaves its fabric with shadow and light, an ever-revolving tapestry woven closely by breath unknown.
As years blend into an indistinguishable haze, one realizes: echoes are but whispers of our own self-reflection. To listen is to understand; to understand is to accept what was never said—but always known.
In Searches of the Starlight Forgotten Hues in Patterns