Etched upon the walls, secrets of the ancients stare back at us with hollow eyes. They whisper tales we have long forgotten, stories buried in the sands of time, only to be found again in the reflection of our own shadows.
Here, in this forgotten place, we see ourselves not as we are, but as we might have been. The hieroglyphs do not lie; they speak of a world both familiar and strange, a mirror to our lost selves.
Remember the stories your grandmother told by the flickering light? They weren’t just stories—they were warnings, lessons veiled as bedtime tales that spun a web of comfort over our childhood fears. The same fears echoed in the hieroglyphs.
They say that each line, each curve tells a part of a dream, a vision of what was to come. But the dreams are not ours; they belong to a sleep we cannot wake from, a history that haunts the passageways of time like a lingering perfume.
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