In the chambers beneath, whispers once sweet, now bitter, weave stories unheard. An echo of truth, ephemeral and cruel, lingers like an unwelcome guest.

It farces around corners, seeking ears that betray, eyes that deceive. Each chamber holds a secret, and this one holds a mirror. Reflection, reflection. But the truth is always uglier.

"The truth?" she asked, her voice a hollow clang. "It's what they don't tell you, what you don't want to see. The whispers lie; they never lie well."

Shadows flicker as if breathing, illuminating stories long buried beneath dust and rust. The ugliest truth? It wears a smile where medicine compels illusions.

During the decayed twilight, the whisperers speak of paths less traveled. Not for the faint, not for the blind, but arms-outstretched seekers.

Would you step inside? Below lies not warmth but a chill that sears. A cold comfort, a friend until the end, until the bitter end. Find another voice if you can.