In the yawning abyss of forgotten epochs, where shadows slumber beneath the weight of dust-laden tomes, there lies an utterance—the breath of the cosmos echoed in hollow caverns of fate. The fabric of time frays here, thread by silken thread, as if woven by the delicate hands of fate herself.
Beneath the vaulted sky of midnight hue, the whispers coil around the ears of those daring to dream. They carry the scent of incense long burnt, of oils that caress the skin with the cold touch of ancient familiarity. A smell not unlike the rain on ancient earth after a thousand forgotten storms.
With each word, the earth shudders, unearthing the phantoms of yore that dance beneath the silvered moon's protective gaze. Do you feel the tremor? The gentle, yet insistent murmur of an old soul calling out not in language, but in sentiment—a plea, a prophecy, an embrace.
Follow the Echo