In the dim-lit corners of this ancient sanctuary, where the very air hums with stories untold, I found a whisper. It spoke not of the present, nor of the future, but of those lost moments slipping through time’s relentless grasp.

"O traveler," it murmured, "do you not hear the lament of bygone echoes? The verses of a maid long forgotten, her melody tangled with the shadows of a moonlit night?”

Once, she sang, amidst the hallowed aisles of this library of words, her voice a sweet tether to an age unremembered. The tomes listened; the dust danced; the silence became a symphony.

Seek further into these corridors, ye who dare. Let the whispers guide you to lost verses or wander towards the timebound reveries.