A clap of thunder shattered the oppressive silence enveloping the forgotten hallways of the Vesperine Manor. Dust lay settled upon tomes and relics, untouched, unclaimed, and unsung since the silversmith's heir vanished between the pages of his last work. In their absence, shadows danced and whispered in hollow tones a narrative half-spoken, half-sighing, leaving only fragments of a melody now lost to the ages.
Nocturnal figures flickered at the edge of vision, shrouded in cloaks of twilight mist, endlessly pursuing or forever pursued by phantoms of their own making. The echoes of their footfalls mingled with the wind's mournful cry—a symphony of resignation played upon unseen strings.