In the cradle of twilight, where whispers weave their lament, the words once spoken now lie still. Each syllable, an echo of a dream, a phantasm of the night—woven into the fabric of the ever-darkening sky.
The old man murmurs, his voice a chilling lullaby that soars through the empty corridors of the mind: "When the clock strikes twelve, and the stars cease their vigil, the words of power shall awaken."
Through the mist, a spectral figure walks, trailed by a mist of forgotten lore. Her fingers trace the lines of ancient scrolls, but only dust swirls at her touch, murmuring tales of yore. Can you hear their sorrow?
And so, we wander, lost in the labyrinth of our own creation, seeking the key to unlock the void—a token of remembrance, a whisper of the past. Timeless Runes | Wailing Verse