In the beginning, when dusk twirled eternal in the depths of void, mechanical whispers echoed through arteries of metal and glass. Scholars of bygone eras, their ink a constellation of unvoiced reality, cast sigils of mourning upon their cosmic altars.
A loom too intricate to see was spun, woven by hands unseen. Threads of departed dreams encoded the fabric of skies—blue as despair, red as realized myths. Lanterns drifted within the caves of judgment, cradling forgiveness not sought.
Here lies a garden tended by spectres, where vines speak in the rustling of echoes. Solitude was a sovereign crowned by silence, ruling a realm phantasmagoric. Bees of paradox hummed beneath twilight veils woven of melodies unheard.