The old chapel's bell tolled three times, its chime whispering forgotten incantations as it cracked the fragile skin of midnight. Here, beneath the weight of history, time folds upon itself, creating a tapestry woven with invisible threads.
Footprints, etched in the dust of centuries, trail into the gloom. They pause, then retreat, mapping a dance eternal and unseen. ( Continue through the veil )
The church had stood long before the first stone was hewn from the mountainside; and it would outlast us, a silent sentinel over a world gone mad with ageless hunger.
Across the ancient sod, a lone figure weaves through the night, their silhouette swallowed by an unseen maw. The churchyard itself seems to breathe, rhythmically, as if synchronized with some fearsome celestial clock.
Within the walls, voices of the restless dead rose, a cacophony of melancholic whispers. Do they seek solace? Or do they simply wish another chance to cross the threshold, where time might be kinder? ( Return to the beginning )
As you navigate, know this: the stories you weave here are threads in a greater loom. Each step taken among the echoes unfurls another layer of this eternal shroud.
In Timefold, all paths are cyclic—each echo a reverberation of choices unmade, paths untaken, in a world shaded by twilight ( Enter the doorways of dusk )