Night wraps around like the familiarity of an old friend's hand. Its grip steady, its voice a broken hymn, once sweet, now a lingering refrain. The records play: "The stars weep," "The stars remember," "The cycle remains." Listen, for they echo like a hollow heart: "The deathless dance—": listen, and the melody remains never-ending—never begun.
Through charcoaled skies above, the cries below intertwine and loop. A waltz of whispers, a sarcophagus of melodies that never speak, only resonate. Walk the path where every shadow is a reflection of what lies beneath.
Paths diverge, but not for choice; whispers align, not for chance. "Through this door, you shan't return," claims the void; yet each step echoes, ricocheting through time's rusted corridors.