Beyond the shadows lies a forgotten echo, a voice woven from the threads of time's unfathomable loom. It speaks not with words, but with silences that stretch and curve into the very fabric of midnight.

Once, this place was alive with the jarring symphony of creation—a riot of joy mirrored in the storm-tossed depths of oblivion. Now, solemn stones mark where laughter faded, where joy melted into a sepulcher of hushed suspense akin to the pulling tide.

Looming spires graze the heavens with their fractured fingertips, eyes without sight piercing the veil of dusk, keeping watch over what should never have been. The remnants of glory linger in faded tapestries, frayed at the edges, whispering secrets to the silhouettes that haunt their corners.

Yet, in the heart of this desolation, a pulse can be felt—a beat echoing the rhythm of the earth, a reminder of existence's fragile dance on the precipice of eternity. The air is thick with the taste of forgotten promises, delivered with the kiss of spectral winds.