Echoesong

In the beginning was the murmur, the subtle hum beneath our feet. It brushed past like autumn leaves, whispering secrets only the heart could hear.

Time is a corridor, we travel through, each step leaving ripples in the fabric of shadows. There are echoes here, fragments of voices lost, awaiting assembly.

I pause to listen. The air trembles with memories, like the last notes of a forgotten melody. Why do they call it music, these weaving threads of silence and sound?

Alone in this resonance, every thought is a puzzle piece, yet there's always one missing, shrouded in the mists of time, eluding capture.