In the waning light, shadows lit the streets not by the sun, but by the stories lost between the cracks of civilization. Moirae was a city designed on such palimpsests, where every structure whispered of eras erased but not forgotten, echoing through time like a broken flute.
Upon the faded veils of old scrolls, Marak found inscriptions not remembered in any known language, bearing witness to a market bustling with gears and toys that covered the sky in mechanized symphonies. "What once was may yet be again," the script ominously suggested, as if it foretold a resurgence, a reclaiming of history by shades cloaked in mist.
Beyond the crumbling arch, carved with ivy's intricate fingers, he stumbled upon a vendor whose stall brimmed with relics—an atlas without geography, a compass that only pointed inwards, and mirrors of the self, all shrouded in secrets.
As he rifled through the artifacts, the vendor spoke in tones soft as silk and sharp as stone: "The echoes of previous lives cling like dew on morning grass. Histories retreat and hide only to reappear anew, when the forgotten song is sung once more in the city of erasures."
Following the trail of the vendor's words, Marak ventured deeper into the labyrinth. A door, narrow and vine-entangled, opened to a room where time stood still. Pages flew without breeze, capturing fleeting images of mythical creatures, bustling streets, and debates in arcane tongues.
Retrieve the lost words