In the deep alleys of a town barely remembered, a sound of endless laughter spilled over cobblestones worn smooth by time. It was a sound that seemed to rise from the very earth, each note a whisper of a forgotten tale.
She walked through these echoes as if wading through fog, the air thick with stories draped over her like invisible cloaks. Her fingers traced the outlines of words etched deep into walls, script as old as the stones themselves, fading but persistent.
"The jesters of the twilight city," the voices murmured, echoing through the palimpsests of her mind.
Who were the jesters, and where had their echoes come from? She turned a page in the book of shadows, ink bleeding into ink, secrets layered upon secrets.
Beneath the laughter, beneath the layers, she found a single truth. In the heart of this laughter, there lay a silence, profound and complete, waiting to be understood. The jesters had spun their tales, and she was left to unravel them, one thread at a time.
The Silence Beneath