In the obsidian cradle of the night, the train traverses an unknown expanse. Here, symbiotic whispers coil around the souls of fleeting passengers. A chorus of forgotten echos align above, beneath ancient vaults of a tunnel unsung.
They spoke not of worldly happenings, but of devices hidden in shadow. Apparitions beckoning with gleaming eyes, relics of an unrecorded past. The iron beast churned onward as whispers wound tighter.
The constant murmur of generations lingered, symphonic hands playing unseen organs. What devices lie within reach at such a ghastly hour? Touched lightly, their ancient tunes would guide the wanderer.
And thus, the gyre turned, making its relentless way. Banshee sirens sang their sanguine hymn, imprinting passages like shadows upon parchment known only to the moon.