In the heart of the old town, beyond the creaking bridge, there lies the echo of forgotten places. A cloister that reverberates with stories untold, timeless, like autumn leaves falling on winter’s doorstep. Here is where she whispers, where her voice wraps around the stone arches, spilling ink across old pages.
"Do you hear it?" she asks, though no one answers. The sound sways like a pendulum, relentless, echo upon echo echo echo. Each stroke of her quill responds, an echo of an echo, until the words dance upon the ceiling in midnight hues.
You wander through corridors that don’t lead anywhere, or perhaps everywhere at once. Shadows stretch and contract, whispers curling into your ear, "Do you see it?" once, twice, thrice. You trace the whispers back to their source, a doorway carved into the very fabric of silence.