And there it stood, the monumental cage of light and whispers. Isolation seeped through its walls like forgotten rain, pooling in corners that never saw the sun. Shoes scuffed the surface, echoes of time unanswered.
The old clock ticked fiercely in the quiet, a heartbeat of a world waiting, aching for completion. Outside, shadows danced in the dusk, mocking the serenity of structures unclaimed by purpose, lost under the fog’s embrace.
Once, there were voices, hushed promises threaded delicately in the air around the place. But now, only the sigh of the evening wind dares to whisper through the cracks, carrying tales that never found their end.
The foundation was not a foundation at all, but a beginning obscured by neglect. From deep within, a restaurant called the void, its menu wide and unending. Patrons unseen, they dined on the essence of dreams long deferred.
Invitations extended, stamped but unposted. These corridors steer travelers toward the next unwritten scene—a play without actors, a book without pages.
Around the structure, birds trace infinite arcs of longing and flight, their patterns map a journey through the echoes of what was or what could be.
A breadcrumb trail, a piece of a puzzle, an echo of another journey.