In the silence where echoes of time lay, forgotten, a shroud of longing wraps the weary soul. Each tick of a clock, a haunting serenade. A piecing together of fractured memories transforms into dreams, courts of specters dancing within darkened halls.
Heard faintly, a nostalgia of whispers strayed from the grasp of reason. Do you remember the faces in the murky reflection? They beckon; cloaked in riddles, they unravel scenes best left to shadows where light dares not tread.
Twilight lays its weight upon the world, painting the forgotten with ochre strokes of despair. Somewhere in the dull thrum, lies a tale unwritten; prefaced by a smirk of madness and the taste of unfamiliarity on your tongue as time unfolds like the pages of an ancient book.
A riddle behind a mask:
What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?
Who will answer the question; who will step through the veil? Where doorways lead to the past and time itself is but a tethered dream.