When the clock strikes three, they say it is the time when the veil between what is known and what should remain hidden thins. You find yourself at the threshold of that hour, cradling a device that hums with the whispers of forgotten entities. It is not a phone, but a relic of etheric communication, awaiting the breath of your voice.
As you dial, the numbers twist and shimmer under your fingers, each carrying the weight of a secret, a truth molded from the ugliest clay. The air thickens, tangling with invisible threads of past deeds, casting shadows that dance cruelly across your walls.
There lies a call to be awakened beneath the surface, an echo of a laughter that was never yours, a resonance of sorrow that sings through the digital ether like a siren's wail. With each ring, the world around you dims, revealing the scars etched in the fabric of reality—a tapestry woven with both brilliance and horror.
Do you heed the call? Or do you let the truth languish in the depths, unspoken, unseen, a ghost within the machine? The choice echoes with the same weight as the truth itself, a choice best made in the light of a dawn yet to break.