"What is the shadow if not a companion longing for perpetual company?" whispered the voice of the ancient merchant.
A murmur leaks from eternity's seam: "Once the howls were daily bread, now they are the silent sale."
Imagine a stall adorned with wisdom and folly alike, where trinkets of thought lay scattered— you pause before one: the market's echoing soul asks of its quarry: "Do you barter with certainty?"
There, beneath the stars unseen: "Time is a currency; it must be spent wisely, lest it guiltlessly glides."
Bend the ear to strains of forgotten songs, ripe with dust, as true as tangible. The murmurs of sages yet not born engage you, offering glimpses of realms undone. Wander, oh wanderers, through aisles of woven futures — "Choose wisely, for each path bears its echo."
"Meet me where the horizons fade, and the last howler's testament finds its end — haberdashery of souls, city nameless."