In the quiet corridors of forgotten words, a tale began not yet penned. A journey of a traveler through the veins of a city unmade.
Whispers of a place where the sky meets the ground in an embrace of shadows and light. The pages turn, but the ink does not dry.
In the fading echoes of dreams, there lies a door, slightly ajar, inviting the curious to peer inside and discover the secrets held within.
The scribe, long forgotten, etched lines into stone and paper, a monologue of solitude.
Each line a labyrinth, each word a door, opening into worlds never formed.
And in that space between the lines, the heart of the story beats, waiting for a reader to breathe life into its silenced breath.