Upon the turrets of a tilting skyline, the castle hummed a forgotten lullaby. In the courtyard, whispers of once-thought lost melodies danced amongst the ivy-coated walls, their syllables flowing like water beneath a silver bridge in the mind.

"Do echoes belong to the mountains, or do mountains belong to echoes?"

The herald of the wobbly castle, a dog-eared tome, plummets softly, inviting unwritten tales.
Enter the winding prose of the whispered tides, where words fight back the dawn.

Through the restless arches, a path leads to spectral groves that illuminate night with a glow drawn from vanishing stars.

And the keeper, with eyes like twilight, chuckled as stone and silence sang symphonic absurdities.