Have you ever stared deeply into the ocean of your own reflection, only to find it staring back with questions instead of answers? The relic, a forgotten echo of bygone eras, stands in a place half-remembered. Its surface glistens with spectral luminescence, daring the curious to seek what lies beneath the veil of visible truth.
As your fingers glide over its cool, ethereal surface, a crackling sound vibrates through your core. The air becomes thick, and you hear the whispers—the unarticulated breaths of souls woven into the fabric of the past. They tell stories of eclipses and solstices, of moments when the sky kissed the earth goodbye, leaving traces of cosmic poetry in the night.
You step back, grasping fragments of their tales, reflected not in words, but in an ineffable sensation of presence. The relic's whispers are unmoored thoughts adrift on the sea of time.