The weaver's fingers dance through the loom of memory, threading tales of shadowed epochs and vestiges of light. Each strand a testament to what was or perhaps what could never be, woven with care and with secrets yet revealed. The murmurs of the tapestry speak in languages long forgotten, a palimpsest of erased histories.
Once, in a land shrouded by mist, there flourished a city of the forgotten. The inhabitants spoke in whispers, their words etched upon the air like a gentle sigh. Here, beneath the aeons of silence, the records of a thousand lifetimes breathe, hidden beneath layers of time’s unyielding touch.