Beneath the gnarled roots of aeons past, whispers linger in the corridors of time, caressing the ear with hollow serenades of cryptic tales untold.
In the core of shadow lies the murmur of endless nights, where silence weaves a tapestry of secrets and the ivy of eternity entwines around the heart of stone.
There, in the sepulchral embrace of the muted moonlight, the cries of forgotten lovers dance in the flickering shadows of their eternal vigil.
Such is the essence of the whispers: a symphony of sorrows, an echo of joys, forever etched in the lips of the unseen.
The stone upon which mercy rests is cold, yet the embers of soul-comfort flicker in the silence, a beacon amidst desolation.
And in this crypt of love letters unspoken, the spectral figures linger, woven by the shadows of memory.