The clock chimed three times, but the room remained unaltered, like an old photograph wilting under the gaze of time. Shadows whispered secrets in languages lost to sanity. Among the them—a tale of betrayal and whispers stitched into the fabric of silence.
Outside, the wind clawed at the window, a desperate pleading from somewhere unrecognizable. Inside, it spoke words best left unheard. "It’s always the one closest," murmured the ghost of our dreams, its breath a frost upon our slumber.
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