"What is already spoken cannot be unheard," quipped the archive keeper, eyes darting through volumes of words better left unsaid. Fearsome intuition, intractable irony, and a belief that echoes could be captured like butterflies.

Begin your journey through corridors that do not exist on maps, paths that twist back upon themselves. In search of the echo, we find only silence unadorned by music or madness.

"Silence echoes," the keeper whispered again, face pale under the unkind glow of a light that flickers sporadically. This resonance, too, will fade, but fear not, for loss is merely a concealed gain.

And what of the words inscribed upon the wall? "Turn left where the corridor ends," they read — yet, the left is merely the right when righted with intent.

Whispered Songs in the Dark Shadows Murmuring Voices Unbarred