In the quiet of midnight, beneath the weeping eaves, lives a shadow—
its existence a mere whisper, yet it commands silence. The clock ticks mournfully, its hands, like grim reapers,
scything through moments unworthy of remembrance.
Nothing but cobwebs cling to fading memories, and time itself is a...
What lurks beyond the glass that holds truths best forgotten?
Broken mirrors, shards that mock the edges of sanity, and somewhere in the chasm of reflection,
you hear whispers in forgotten tongues, speaking of doors unopened...
Violet, Obsidian: mere hints of a color palette ignored by light's
ever-eloquent refrain. And all therein, a tale sewn into the fabric of night's.