In the corridors of the night, where echoes whisper dreams untold, souls meet for a dance of shadow and light. Have you seen the melting clocks, ticking in reverse?
The ugliest truth is not that which scars our faces, but the one that resides within. Told by the wind, forgotten by the stars.
March beneath the withering trees, where leaves are lost souls seeking redemption in the autumn winds. They beg for silence, yet cry in multitudes.
Forgotten pathways unravel before you with cryptic signs—a cloud shapes a dragon, whilst a whisper becomes time itself.
A truth once silent starts to rustle like forest leaves in an unbidden breeze. Can you hear them? The voices among the thorns and cobwebs?
Find solace in other echoes, or spin tales with the dying embers.