Cannibalistic echoes, feasting upon the remnants of silence left brooding in the shadows, tread lightly upon the stony heart of the cathedral's underbelly, where secrets twist in continuous somersaults like a ravenous ouroboros. Gone is the tranquil slumber of the old walls; they stand vigil, watching, unseen eyes prying into the unraveling threads.
And here, a world — a mere reflection absconding from the waking realm — where footsteps etched in ephemeral sand tell tales twined around abandoned dreams, mirroring surface reflections below lakes long since dried to desolate memories. Speak not to ghosts; they speak only in the language of parting shadows and hollow sighs, a hymn to a symphony of broken chandeliers suspended in the cavernous hallways.
Clifford's Small Embrace† was perhaps an insignia of innocence trapped in a consolidated scripture, now bordered by medieval iron keys, remnants of which lie scattered like fallen stars across the supplicant marble — pray but not spoken, that she may yet listen...