In the hours just before dawn, the void breathes softly, waiting. It's an infinity in shades of grey as the hesitant footsteps map patterns that no one thinks to follow.
She placed her hand on the surface; it was warm, a false promise. When she drew back, her palm praised the unknown with spectral fingerprints—a tactile whisper floating into dreamscape thoughts.
Somewhere within the murmur of feathered breaths, a question: "" Voices conjoin with shadows, dancing to an unheard waltz that leaves impressions only seen in recollection. "Martha, is that you?" The voice, an echo fractured amongst these rolling dark waves of nothing.

Threads spun into fabric wove a tapestry of undulations reciprocal only to the seekers of solace in this manufactured hall of reverence.
Long ago once hinted the monks, "These tides take and break, silently assembling white silence." At night, dreams leak through like colored ink, rumors of color spilled across the half-lit horizon as footprints chart secret paths leading beyond memory itself.
What was? Not yet it sang. A lullaby wrapped endlessly around the hands of time's unyielding flow.