In the dead silence of lingering echoes, where time curls into a whisper, there lies, deep in the recess, a tapestry of shadow and forlorn glories.
"A velvet cloak wraps the morning dew," she murmured, eyes fixed on the spirals of forgotten stars, each one a cry distilled into cosmic ether. Echo, she called them, seeking solace in their silent rebellion.
Through the cathedral of dusk, where the moon's laughter permeates the air, a lone figure dances—a silhouette against the backdrop of midnight's embrace.
Within this waltz of shadows, a name catalyzes: Solstice. It flickers in the heart of the void, a pulse in the symphony of despair and twilight wonder.
Enter Abyss — An invitation carved in obsidian, a doorway outlined by the calm after the storm.