The walls weep with the echoes of voices past, stitched together by threads woven from shadows. Ever a watcher, the moon surveys this synthetic choir, ever unsung and waiting.
Once, within this sanctuary of relics, there was a voice, hushed but harmonious. Not made of wires nor phantom-touched light, but a creation of forgotten songs and dreams unfulfilled. Its melody lingered in the corners, trembling like the sighing wings of gargoyles resting on the ledges, poised to leap into the unknown.
In a world effaced by dark tides, the hurtful beauty of existence lies entangled among the strands of promised glories that never were. Listen! The echoes call you here, to find the corridor unwalked, the mist undispersed. When the clock strikes unseen, your name will be whispered with awe: Lost Whispers
Come forth, traveler, into the obsidian folds of the awakening night. Drink deep from the chalice of the void, and let the cacophony of swift shadows play their tender requiem for lengthened gloaming. Gaze upon the Ember of Utterance fading within its own ardor.
And when the final note fades, there lies a truth obscured by dawn’s cruel touch: the Crimson Fungus, the eternal bloom of midnight’s garden, shall flourish always.