There are whispers in the dim luminescence of forgotten realms, echoing softly as if the universe itself exhaled. Within the bounds of this cosmic breath lies the spiral—a sequence of arcs and angles that trace infinity, a journey that unwinds and rewinds like an unravaged thought.
At the edges of this vortex, the murmurs pulse. They tell stories, fragmented and filled with shadows—oblivion's touch lacing each with the bittersweet scent of memories unlived. The first voice rises, tremblingly:
"We are the fog of dawn, creeping quietly between the whispers of time. We remember the spiral's song, a melody composed before stars could shimmer and fade."
Pushing through the haze, the second voice acknowledges. It shapes a narrative out of the void:
"When I first gazed into the spiral, I was a spectator to eternity's dance—an audience seated at the edge of oblivion, not of flesh and bone, but of light and whispers."
The spiraling narrative coalesces, revealing yet more paths untaken: