Whispers crawl along the crumbling corridors of time, weaving stories in the fabric of forgotten echoes. The chandeliers of yore hang like spectral remnants, flickering with a glow that remembers not the source of its light.
In a realm where the walls turn to dust at the touch, and the floors ripple like a sea of old parchment, we find the obelisk of eternity. Its inscriptions, long obscured by the decay of ages, still sing a melody of what was, what is not, and what perhaps shall never be.
Beneath the skeletal framework of time's grand design lies the root of endless night. A labyrinth of memories, entropic in nature, where the past and future intertwine in a dance of shadows. Here, tales told by the midnight breeze come alive, their voices the echoes of a history lost to the infinite spiral.