Between despair and dreams, find the hidden echoes. They speak in riddles, in whispers, always just out of reach.
In the halls of time standing still, a memory flickers like a dying star.
The void does not care, but you do. You reach out, grasping shadows, seeking substance in the insubstantial.
Do you find comfort in the chaos? Or do you dance on the edge, knowing secrets that unravel the fabric of reality?

Silent. Yet not silent. The echoes sing, soft and haunting.
Are they your own? Or do they belong to the souls that wander these corridors of inevitability?
Whispered warnings, unheeded advice, a cacophony of the forgotten and the remembered.
In the end, does it matter? Or does the truth lie in the journey, the endless wandering through the hidden vaults?