In the hollow silence, beneath the veil of twilight, the whispers of forgotten dreams traverse through the spiral corridors of time. Each mote a memory, a flicker of life, drifting in the obsidian sea of dead stars.
With luminous threads, they weave a tapestry of shadowy wonders— stories etched in the marrow of night, destined to haunt the unlit corners of our souls. The moon bleeds silver, a ghostly tear upon the sable canvas.
This way, those whispers ensnare the heart and clutch the mind in spectral embrace.