"Listen closely," she whispered, "to the echoes of eternity crying beneath the phantasmal veil of night. In those whispers, there's truth; a truth twisted by time's cruel engine."
Visions kaleidoscopic, darting through crimson corridors. A clock made of shadows ticks in the abyss of dreams.
Remember the masquerade beneath the waning moon.
The ancient bookshelves hold onto secrets with a lover's tenacity, crammed within their dusty pages are plaintive cries for beings long departed. Each syllable a spectral relic, fragmenting, and reassembling in the minds of those brave enough to read.