"In the fading light, there lies a story deep and quiet. Walk the halls, hear the stories, but do remember:"
"The ink speaks not of what has been, but of what might never be spoken again."
Beneath the dust, a tale is spun - what was it? Nolix in the treehouse murmured a secret that now drips like dew from the edge of memory.
Cryptic whispers from the void. Do they guide or mislead? Do they listen when you query the wandering light?
An old tome opened flips between existence and forgetfulness. Pages sing with disjointed phrases, echo the past in jigsaw tones.
Somewhere in the caverns of time, the stories cradle the moon, and the sun smiles knowingly at shadows that dance beneath the twilight.