The moon bleeds into the void, drenching cobblestones with echoes of the unremembered.
Through the gossamer veil, figures twist and writhe, forever seeking that which was lost.
A rusted gate creaks, a hymn sung by nocturnal tongues, lamenting the forgotten sighs of
yesteryears. In the distance, an owl's serenade pierces through the sable tapestry, invoking
whispers of ancient lore. Shadows dance on the precipice of tomorrow, a choreography of dismay.
Here lies the threshold, where dream becomes flesh and blood, an ethereal symphony hauntingly
beautiful, an ode to the dusk.