In the void, where echoes fold upon themselves, a solemn tale unwinds like a tapestry woven from starlight. Darkness cradles whispers of forgotten paths, where shadows dance to a tune only the ancients remember.

Once, there was a lantern, glowing not with flame but with the memory of silken dreams. Its light flickered, casting figures on the walls that spoke in riddles—a language older than time, yet familiar as the heartbeat of the earth.

The wind carries their voices, soft as the touch of moonlit dew, tender as the sigh of autumn leaves.