In the echoing halls, a whisper persists.
It speaks of shadows, of forgotten light, and the shimmer of unseen worlds.
Can you hear the silent screams of history,
trapped within the walls, like moths in a lantern's glow?
They call, they beckon, with promises of becoming.
Such are the echoes of the abyss.
Each step forward is a step back in disguise;
reflections ripple like water in a storm.