In the heart of the void, where shadows dance like phantoms on forgotten gravestones, there lies a portal of obsidian hue.
Whispers claw at the edges of sanity, their voices slick like morning dew on lace-fringed spider webs, suspended in the amber of a bygone dusk.
A clock strikes ten—no, eleven, or has it been a century since its chime first echoed into these yawning abysses?
Here, time is a fickle mistress, a wisp of smoke curling above the cold embers of memory. Will you dare peer within?
Ember-lit eyes watch from the edges, a vast audience invisible, arbiters of your unspoken fears.