Have you ever pondered the invisible threads that stitch moments into memories, yet unravel in silence?
In the labyrinth of thought, echoes linger—soft murmurs tracing the spine of time's forgotten tales.
The clock ticks, not in seconds, but in whispers. Each tick a secret, each tock an echo lost to the void.
Touch the silken web of time, feel how it slips through your fingers. A touch, a breath, gone like morning mist.
Ephemeral moments weave a tapestry, intricate yet fragile, where shadows dance in the twilight of memory.
Can you hear the whispers? They call from the brink of now and then, a soft song of entwined destinies.
Reflect, dear traveler, on paths not taken. The whispers know them all, their secrets guarded in the twine.
The past holds a mirror, reflecting not what was, but what could have been, in the quiet language of stars.