I saw the castle bathed in a crimson glow, though the sun was hidden. Its towers whispered secrets to the wind, secrets woven in threads of night and shadows. A telepathic chill crawled upon the spine, yet I could not look away.
Somewhere deep in this recess, the mind wanders. The whispers echo through hollow halls, bouncing off unseen walls, seeking.... seeking. But what? Read the inscription carved by forgotten fingers on crumbling stone:
"Do you not feel it creeping? The tendrils of thought that are not your own," she said, her voice barely a sigh.
"...a vision without eyes," he echoed, a mere thought touching a distant ear.
Follow the link where shadows breathe: Shadows Breathe.
And so the vision fades, not with the dawn, but with the silence that follows the last whisper of the fading night.
Or perhaps, beyond the grave, where the light dares not tread: Beyond the Grave.