In long corridors where whispers grow, the echoes of futures untold—murmurs of origins drift like smoke in the air. Fables etched in forgotten steel, rusting not in the rain but in the silence of ages past.
Walk these paths and find the
shadows of what once was, or what might yet be.
"We are the echoes of the corridors," they murmured, silently.
Steps light and heavy, in turns; each footfall marking time with a note of dread or cheer. The relics tell stories, though none know how to listen anymore. Their voices, once bright, dulled to a soft hum beneath the ground.
Seek the
temple where light fractures and reality bends, and truths unspoken sing on the edge of dreams.
"We carry the weight of whispers," they said, faintly.