"Awakening in stillness, we find that the past holds its breath, waiting for the brave to listen."
Fog drapes like a shroud on stones long worn,
Figures of memory rise where life once was born.
Cloaked in twilight, a watcher takes flight,
Beneath the moon's gaze, the living meet night.
Twisted branches reach like fingers of fate,
Whispers of shadows weave tales that await.
In this quiet domain where echoes conspire,
The pulse of the past feeds the heart's deep desire.
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