In the heart of the labyrinth, a clockwork symphony plays silently. The gears, unseen, orchestrate a dance of whispers. Shadows stretch and contract, embodying movement in stillness, mirroring forgotten tales of borrowed time.
Here misery takes form and shape in mankind's eternal quest for redemption. Step lightly, for the silence shatters like glass underfoot, revealing eyes that watch through dark curtains of the soul's undoing.
Schubert's ghost wanders the echoing halls—an eternal spectator veiled in night, his silent aria the only companion in these murky veils. Listen closely, but not too closely.
Histories unravel in solitary confinement. In the still of this cold symphony, find solace only in the knowledge that the unseen door awaits, marked not by entrance but by your remembrance of its name—an ever-present illusion.
The end of the journey is, after all, merely a shadow meeting another shade, endlessly folding back upon itself.