In the hollow of the forgotten woods, shadows submerge into whispers. The trees murmur secrets, ancient and cryptic, their voices but a faint echo. You stand, heart pulsating with dread, beneath boughs that have seen centuries of decay. A whisper knows your name.

"Here lies the truth," murmurs the wind, or perhaps it was the voice of another soul lost to time. Beneath your feet, the ground trembles, not with life but with an eternal absence.

The moon, veiled by fractured clouds, casts an unearthly glow. Shadows pulse—erratic, chaotic—like the remnants of a forgotten dream.