There are moments in life where time bends, unyielding to the laws of reality. In a forgotten corner of the world lies Elderdew, where every droplet of morning dew is an echo of the voices that came before. It was here that Eldon, the faceless scribe, found himself entangled in stories inked in shadows.
Eldon sat by the hearth of the ancient library, surrounded by the scent of moth-eaten vellum and the lingering warmth of forgotten fires. Each page he turned whispered notions untold; a celestial chorus that stitched the airs of yesterday into today's quilt. These whispers became his soundtrack, an orchestrated narration of lives lost in the river's pull.
In the lull between dusk and dawn, the ink flowed like a stream of repressed dreams, each narrative bleeding into another. Would the scribe find his face as he penned down thoughts not his own? Beneath the layers of oblivion slept the ancient one, a soul connected across epochs—a guardian of truths and tales.
With each night's endeavor, Eldon found pieces of himself morphing into the narrative, pages curling under the weight of untold sagas. Yet, beneath this burden, within the enchanted quill's strokes, a whisper—an invitation succeeded by silence: "Come home, find the echoes of you."