Once, in a time unmeasured by clocks, the ancients whispered of the hidden tomes. These were not merely books, but vessels of wisdom and folly alike. Palimpsests etched into memory, erasing and rewriting until nothing remained but the faint echo of gilded ink.
In the shadow of forgotten cities, the winds carried tales of forgotten empires, their rise and fall inscribed on the brittle pages of time itself. Histories woven and unwoven, like the threads of an eternal loom, where each stitch binds a story to another, yet unravels the very fabric of its truth.
The surfaces of these records were smooth, once, unmarred by the scars of revision. But over centuries, layers upon layers, they became a tapestry of continuity and discontinuity, a synthesis of what was and what could never be.
The reader stands before these eternal texts, a witness to their silent lament. Seeking truth amidst the fragmented whispers of what once was—an impossible journey, yet a necessary one for the seeker of the arcane.