In the heart of the shrouded valley, where echoes linger longer than time permits, stands a monolith. Its surface etched with runes from a forgotten epoch. I placed my hand upon it, feeling the vibrations—alien yet accommodating, as if it sang a song only the lost remembered.
At twilight, the air thickened with whispers, those twisted sounds finding solace in the breath of the night. Signals—shadows—signals, caressing the fringes of comprehension before swiftly cloaking themselves in the dawn's theocratic light.