The library of the void was never truly silent. Those who wandered its endless halls claimed to hear echoes of forgotten prayers, words inscribed upon windswept pages lost to time. Some said it was the breath of the cosmos whispering into the hollow chasms between stars.
Once, there lay stories of vast kingdoms and countless empires, their tales lay stacked and forgotten within the shelves. In other volumes, entire civilizations were erased like chalk swept from a board, their legacies buried beneath layers of reconstructive history, palimpsests of an age-long gone—a tapestry of infinity torn only to be sewn anew by celestial hands.
On pages once etched with chronicles of conquests and dreams, an era etched into the minds of its legion were erased by the touch of a cosmic hand. Like sand slipping through clenched fists, history bled into voidness, only to be captured again, reshaped in the hands of its chroniclers. We wander forgotten hallways and find doorways to echoes unremembered, our fingers trailing on ink that was not meant to stay.