In a forgotten corner of a sabled world, where the sun dares not dash its light, there resides a symphony. Not of clarinet or flute, but of whispers—the unsung verses of the melancholy wind.
"Shall we dance with phantoms, my love?"
The moon listened, and so did the withering leaves, as the ground trembled beneath their spectral ballet. Time, a silent spectator, clasped its hands in darkened glee.
The night's cloak shrouds a history, inked in the shadows of dilapidated libraries, where dust bunnies wiggle beneath the weight of forgotten tomes. Pages whisper secrets in sundried languages, asking, pleading for unforgotten lullabies to breathe life anew.
"Oh, how the lullabies beckon; they carve the night's tapestry," a voice drawled from the sepulchral distance.
There, in the heart of the abyss, lies a truth obscured by silence. Its name is known only to those wandering among the echoes of a raven’s call, whose midnight serenade haunts the starry void with a chorus of ethereal hymns.