The clock has no hands in this realm, where dusk's breath freezes time's yearning. Crumbling corridors sigh with the laments of distant sorrows, each whisper a memory misplaced, a shadow unspooled upon cold stone pavements.
In the twilight, figures drift silently—mystic silhouettes, woven of midnight mist and forgotten prayers, cast long upon the tapestry of history awash in sepulchral hues.
Memories, like cobwebs, cling to decrepit arches—an embrace of light that never was. Amid the echoes, a whisper: return to the origami of your untold tales.
Fingers trace the outline of stars long extinguished in the expanse of forgotten heavens, their light felled by ages and the slow, tender creak of existence folding in on itself, mystic, mysterious, eternal.
The sigils writhed into the etheric walls ripple under an appetite for light. Verdant vines wither into whispers, curating grotesque beauties: roses bearing thorns of longing, tattered by celestial wrath.
A dirge hums silently at every threshold—a lull, a press into eternity's sleeping embrace.