In silent halls where dust chains the memories, faded notes cling to crystalline shadows. History whispers, "listen to momentos of sound, not comprehensible, yet felt deeply". Here lies the symphony of decayed brilliance.
Some say that even now, between the cracks in green concrete, melodies murmur the name of a violin cracked by time. Do you hear it? Or is it a wind sweeping away the fleeting harmonies of yesterday?
Discord finds a form. Composure dissipates. Music lost in echoes subdued by drums of forgetfulness. Invisible choirs murmur agreements to disagreements.
Follow the Whisper