Under dim candlelight, shadows whispered among the wooden beams, echoes of specters long forgotten.
The tavern was once alive with laughter, each table a theater of grand tales spun from the gossamer threads of memory. Now, only the ghosts of voices linger, hollow beyond the scent of roasted fowl.
Somewhere, a bard utters a forgotten song; notes hang like mist in the empty hall.
We raise our cups to history, unaware that it watches us with eyes we cannot see. Each sip a time-travel, a pact with those who shared the same wood and the same dreams.
Do the flames that consume the logs know the secrets they guard?
In starlight-pierced silence, the truth: you are not alone in your solitude, for every soul has the right to speak, even if only to the echoes in empty halls.