In the hush of night, a flicker echoes the silence.

Once, there was a window—now, just outlines.

Marks on stone, whispers of the wind, a path never taken.

Ghosts of ink on fragile parchment, fading, erased.

A name, maybe two, beneath dust—

unspoken truths linger.

What was, is now unknown.

Pages turn in moonlight, stories writ in twilight's grasp.