In the catacombs beneath forgotten town squares lies the forgotten emissary—its red wax seal, embossed with a forgotten cipher, remains unbroken. Number 64, engraved into its side.
Shadows cling to the corners of this room, vibrating softly with every tremor of memory's touch. These shadows make whispers heard through the husk of dusk.
"Do you hear them ... the whispers?", cried the maid forlorn, as her candle flickered in reluctance.
The mysteries entombed are murmurs of heart wherein lies cold artifacts: the faded letters, the dry ink, the scene set in some eternal autumn.
Proceed, curious wisher, into the labyrinth you shall not forget: Mirror Garden, or test your fortitude here: Thresholds.
Into this cavern of ancient echoes where presence is only understood in absence, silhouette shapes do loom, half-remembered, etching their sighs onto time.