In the cathedral of absence, where shadows linger and the air is thick with the scent of ancient secrets, the rite begins.
A whisper assists your descent: "Enter the doors that have never swung ajar, where memory blurs with fading light and names are like forgotten songs."
The initiation is steeped in elements of nostalgia, but not the gentle kind bathed in sunlight. Instead, it is the electric taste of rain on graveyards, where the stones remember and the earth breathes stories beneath the surface.
Your hands grasp the empty, shifting sands of faces not yet formed, yet endlessly familiar. Here, you must utter:
"Irrelevancy met curiosity on a path laced with rain, leaving imprints that lacked neither presence nor substance."
Beyond these thresholds, the chorus of time does not sing, but hums—a deep morose melody accompanied by the night wind, which speaks of places uncharted. The catacombs reek of muted echoes, a memoir waiting to be born yet tethered to silence.
Once you step forward, you shall realize these paths are not merely walked—they are embarked upon with reverence:
To forget is the first lesson, to remember the consequence. Shadows dance as your only companions, tied intricately to your silhouette in a solemn embrace.
And the walls moan with a tune that whispers:
Rest before the Crucible of Choice, before you regain remembrance or pass through the archway eternally shadowed by unfamiliar stars. The path is winding but always forward, ever toward the edge of dusk where forgotten tales unfold in flickers of banished light.