When the twilight devours the horizon, leaving a canvas of shadow and unrevealed light, one may stumble upon the Silenthalls—a labyrinthine abode of echoes, where the murmured regrets of bygone ages mingle with the creeping ivy of indifferent time. Each wall, a mirror of forgotten truths, glistens in a sheen of spectral tears, holding within an orchestra of silence that thunders in the ears of any brave enough to tread its desolate atrium.
In this sepulcher of spoken words, where every sigh weaves the fabric of unseen worlds, truth dons the cloak of the grotesque. Its beauty is an ache, its splendor a curse; for even the gilded whispers exhale an elegy, as the beauty of the truth writhes in its own unveiling. A flower wilts in the air, withered by the very sunlight it yearns to meet, and thus does the hall elude the blame, for it is only the keeper of what must be.