In the cobwebbed corners of a fractured memory soft whispers linger; they swirl like petals pet sought by the lament of the wind. Crumbled shadows chase a distant light, and delicate tides crawl inward with whispers of laughter from far behind.
The sun burns in ethereal dusk, painting rooms inaccessible; fading light retreats through stories told in voices echoing like eldritch whispers—a grandeur that trembles on the trembling shores of consciousness.
Like the scent of rain on dry earth, echoing time breeds specters roaming rustling leaves where formerly lay vibrant dreams.