In corridors spun of midnight mist, the shadow whisperer lings dwell. They dance with the echoes, each pause a silent scream, each breath a forgotten choice. Here lies the edge of all edges, where oblivion folds and unfolds, a paper crane in the twilight.
With eyes like moonlit fog, they perceive the unseen strands, weaving in and out like strings on celestial harps. The whispers linger—tales of what could have been, woven into tapestries of shadow and light. Listen closely, and you may hear their lullabies.
Echoes from the Abyss Threads of Cosmic WeavingHere, oblivion might crumple, or perhaps it smooths. The fabric of time stretches thin, murmuring secrets to the observer. Will you heed their call?
Sometimes it appears as a fogged window; other times, a cracked mirror. Do we dare to touch the veil?