In the narrow corridors of solitude, overhead whispers hang like spiders' webs, improbable realities refracted through a faltering prism. Do you hear the echoing entrails of whispers, sewn into the creeping vines that clutch the ancient stone walls?
Deep below, where root meets darkness, an unfathomable presence breathes, shaping the very air we descend through with gusts of chilling permanence. Its flickering shadows write murmurings upon the walls, cryptic allegories of a forgotten eternity.
With each step, fears whisper promises, light twists itself beyond hope, weaving labyrinths of obsolescence, inviting you deeper into decaying voids.
Pause and listen—there lies an immortal echo, rippling through the past, waiting for the moment when fleeting shades follow their shadowed paths.