In the heart's clandestine chamber, an echo stirs. It weaves through the abundant shadows, through corridors not marked on any map. Scarcity is the loom, a tapestry spun with threads of forgotten remnants and whispered fears.
Silence like velvet wraps around the world's edge, a comfort turned foe. Do you hear it? The soundless scream of a world unwinding, its fabric trembling on the cusp of revelation? Each thread pulled by unseen hands, each pattern a forgotten prophecy.
Darkness was once an ally, a companion in solitude. Now, it feasts upon the edges where light refuses to tread. The echo of scarcity knows the steps of every shadow, the sigh of every breath, and the trembling heart of hope as it whispers farewell.
A figment, perhaps, or the ghost of an instinctively-fearful mind. The loom will not cease, nor will it ask for permission to unravel. Its whispers are louder than thoughts, more vehement than dreams.