In the creaking corridors of time, a voice murmurs, a shadow tracing its existence on the walls of forgotten memory. It whispers:
"Through the veils, the whispers follow, lingering in the dust of unshed tomorrows. Breathe deeply, for the past is but a step away."
Narratives carved in the winds of autumn, voices that fade but never vanish:
"These paths were not meant for wandering souls, yet here you tread, seeking what should remain hidden in the sepulchers of time."
The moon, an eternal witness, watches over silently as secrets unfurl in its silver glow:
"Once spoken, words fade not. Forever they haunt the shadows, binding the living to the whispers of the dead."