**Thank you for wandering these dim-lit halls where my inner world softly unravels.** Whether you brushed past on a breath of curiosity, or paused to trace a thought left in your wake, your presence leaves an echo. This space is not bound by logic or light—it’s composed of smoke-laced reveries, faded dreams caught in still frames, and the quiet ache of things half-remembered.

Each image flickers like a candle behind a veil, a language spoken in hushes and hues. They are offerings from the in-between: shaped by silence, solitude, and the shadows we only meet when the world goes quiet. Here, memory and imagination are mirrors facing one another, endless, uncertain, and beautiful in their distortion.

If you feel a stirring—a whisper, a glint of recognition—know you are not alone. The air listens. The images wait. And the door, like a memory, never quite closes.

**Linger, if you like. The dark here is gentle, and it dreams in color.**