The night fog creeps silently, draping the forgotten echoes of the unseen fabric. A whisper, a shudder, a forgotten heart; the clock strikes twelve in the desolate corridors of the mind.
In the obsidian loom, where only shadows dare to tread, a tapestry of secrets weaves itself. The threads of silent screams, the needles of ink, stitch together a silent symphony.
Do you hear the echoes? They call from beyond the veil, where time folds back upon itself in whispered secrets and untold stories.