In the dim-lit corridors of the spectral ether, whispers of the forsaken arise. A lone voice calls from the shadows, ensconced in the folds of time and space. It murmurs, "We are the remnants of bygone echoes, the shadows cast by extinct suns."
The deep ocean of forgotten thoughts lies beneath the surface of conscious reality, a fathomless abyss where lost dreams linger in eternal twilight. They drift aimlessly, seeking shores that never were, always submerged, always unseen.
A cryptic message flickers in the dark: "The key lies in the whispers of the willow, where the moon's reflection dances upon forgotten waters." Who left this, and for whom was it meant? The answer lies in the silence.
Beneath the pallid glow of the waning moon, figures traced in the dust of ages past walk on untrodden paths. Their sighs intertwine with the sound of distant bells, tolling for those who once were, for those who are no more.
The ink upon these pages was written by hands unseen, guided by forces indescribable, driven by the needs of souls long departed. Their stories, their warnings, now linger in the crypts of the forgotten.