The clock ticks in fathomless dread, each strike a reminder, a beckoning of shadows. Words echo from unguessed knaves, woven through lamentations of velvet. They twist and curl like the dark tendrils of one lost, wandering.
With hands trembling, I inscribe upon the parchment. A tale of buried tomorrows sings a dirge. Once kissed by smoke and sorrow, it frays at the touch. In the pale moonlight, voices murmur, rendering time both fleeting and adamantine.