Whispers in the Cloak
In the village where shadows dance and the moon is seldom seen, the wind carries tales untold. Stories of the Night Weaver, who spins silk from the dreams of forsaken souls.
Here, beneath the crumbling architraves of a forgotten chapel, echoes the laughter of a thousand specters. Their voices rise and fall like the tide, crashing against the cliffs of despair.
The Funhouse mirror reflects not your visage, but your essence, writhing and contorted, a mosaic of fears and hidden desires. What do you see when you peer into such depths?