In the solitude of twilight, where whispers rest upon forgotten echoes, there lies a parchment unwritten. Each stroke of the quill, an entity entwining destiny in laden ink, sculpting words from translucent shades.
The scribe does not see what he writes; instead, he listens to the murmurs of wandering stars, tracing constellations upon the minds of those who dream with open eyes.
Consider the path shaped by hands unseen — a labyrinth woven from the quill's breath. Would you retrace your steps, unknowing the hand that guided you?
Silence Murmurs