In the silent embrace of the midnight void, where echoes die and shadows linger, a voice murmurs through the corridors of forgotten dreams.
They say, "In the labyrinth of glass and steel, your reflection speaks in riddles, unraveling truths wound tight with deceit."
An owl, perched atop a twisted spire, hoots thrice—once for the dawn that never rises, twice for the night that never ends, and thrice for those caught in the cyclical dance of despair.
A phantom breeze carries whispers of yesterdays, hungering for today’s sorrows, draped in the velvet of eternity's embrace.