Beneath the tapestry of night, where shadows weave their secrets, there exists a truth whispered among the cinders of time. The hidden hands, they caress the places where light fears to tread, painting stories of sorrow on the walls of the world.
You wander these corridors, each step echoing with the breaths between heartbeats. The air is thick with tales untold, of spirits bound not by chains, but by the very essence of silence that sleeps in your mind.
Are you not curious, dear trespasser? Reach into the void and face what lies beyond the veil. Perhaps you will uncover the names etched in the dust of forgotten memories.
The hands linger on your shoulders, a gentle reminder of their eternal watch, as you step deeper into the embrace of shadow. Let them guide you to where the echoes sing their mournful songs, a choir in a cathedral of the lost.
There is no escape from their touch, nor wish to turn back, for you have crossed the threshold and the hidden hands weave their magic. In this realm, every heartbeat is a whisper, every sigh a story untold.