In the forgotten alleys of a world not too distant, where light dared not tread, shadows whispered tales of the ugliest truth. Once, the sun stretched greedily over the sprawling vastness of forgotten dreams, but now—the remnants of a truth lay scattered like autumn leaves, brittle and mournful.
Murmurs escaped from cracked windows, a symphony only the broken-hearted could comprehend. Here, they spoke of mortality and the unyielding chains of time woven with hands of sand. Dry words dripped like poison from the lips of the wind, leaving scars across the barren landscape of memories.
As night deepened, they gathered, seekers of truth hidden beneath masks of velvet. They mingled in frosted taverns, where the ugliest truths became currency. Every drink tasted of rust, every laugh echoed a hollow promise. In the corner, an old woman told the story of the last keeper of light, her voice a brittle thread in the tapestry of twilight.