Across the crescent fog, the truth stiffens into shapes unseen. Whispered legacies unravel within fingers never felt, like tales spun by a breeze.
A timeless serenade, echoes thrash against the walls of memory—phantoms linger at the edges, sketching silhouettes on forgotten tomorrows.
Burnt whispers dance upon a tapesty of obsidian, their warmth a delusion in the grip of icy reluctance.
The spectral nodes pulse subtly, urging the heart to decipher the arcane rhythms of existence. Breathe in, for the truths that slip through cracks of cognition are woven with invisible threads.
Follow the trails: