They march without sound, a procession of figures moving in perfect unison down an endless street. Their faces are blurred, shifting, as if memory cannot hold them still. Some wear masks, others have none at all. Their footsteps leave no trace, yet the air vibrates with something unseen. An echo of a song that was never sung.
Banners hang from unseen hands, their symbols unrecognizable, their colors bleeding into the sky. The buildings on either side lean inward, listening, watching. Windows blink open and shut, doorways stretch like yawning mouths. Time bends here. Seconds stretch, moments collapse, the march never ends.
No one knows where they are going. No one remembers where they began. The silent parade moves on, endless, eternal, disappearing into a horizon that does not exist.
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