In the corners, where light dares not thread, the whispers of the Obscura dwell amidst the echoes of shadowed valleys. A gothic tapestry, woven through refracted shards of unspoken truth. Linger here, among the fragments of a once-whole.
"What is this place?" she whispered, the darkness embracing her voice as it sought solace in the vacuum of sound. A mirror fell in a distant gallery, shattering whispers into shards.
Threads of logic spin oddly through the prism's gaze. Each hue a memory, each line a tale. This world is but a mesh of whispered dreams, caught in cobwebs spun of silken night.