The sound of footsteps echoed hollowed back upon the labyrinth walls, whispers reversing like the song of a siren into shadowy notes. An eager traveler once said, "The journey is not forward but a spiral retracing whispers in the dark." Thus, the corridors twisted in paradoxical fashion.
In this world, time unravels threads sewn into the very fabric of reality, crossing over into forgotten melodies. As you wander, you might meet Alaric, whose voice trembles as if it were a string plucked in solemn solitude. "To go forward is to forfeit the roads not taken backwards," he warns, his eyes reflecting paths of yore.
The air hums with the remnants of ancient dirges, half-told stories of lost wanderers, and sighs of reformed patterns. Beyond the threshold of understanding, the pathways offer themselves, not as linear routes, but as cyclical elegies performing their eternal recantation.