It begins late in the evening, roundabouts the owl's twelfth hoot, that inexplicable curiosity that drives the
seeker into the dingy depths of yesterday's shadows.
There lies a staircase, fractals of a time unknown, whose steps speak only when no one is listening.
But if you bend low, if you dare miss the brush of sanity's frock, beneath the floorboards, among the dust,
there is found... murmur.
“Murmur,” spake the bleached parchment, its fibers trembling with secrets too tender for daylight.
The lunatic's tale unspools between this and another page, where logic is a jest unworthy of laughter, a dance unwitnessed.
Here lives the narrative of a world askew, where pickled ravens argue the price of shadows and every shadow has a name—not a soul, its echo.
Do you hear it? The tune of invisible iron? Break upon the chain of senses and wade through the murk of history's grasp.
Every word finds you anew, every silence hardens the dusk with the weight of an unsung hymn, a melody patched with starlight and folly.
The whispers, constant—the murmurs, eternal. A lull not for tired souls but for those who know to listen.