The machine hummed at dusk, its symphony a dirge sung by hollow optics. Metal dobs seized the moment, brewing light into shadows as whispers festered beneath cogs that grind not in haste but in ritual.
Beneath the watchful gaze of the finks, a sip of the draught flows through unseen pipes. It travels not to quench, but to infuse the gears with a gloss of dread, as if yearning to merge with the very essence of night.
An echo languishes in rusted corridors, where secrets slip through the optical seams, unfurling like moths drawn to the flickering flame of a distant promise. Touch not the threads that bind these visions lest you crave to weave anew.