In an ancient house, the rocking chair bears witness to many fates. Squeak, the sound that never aged, echoes faintly, a cry too haunting to silence. Its voice, a curse bound in balancers and broken wood, whispers secrets of forlorn souls seeking solace—it only grants rest, never peace.
Trace the spectral echoesAn unremarkable old clock, with pendulums stuck in the choke of time, curses the cycles it cannot escape. Every tick takes its toll—a grim tally of moments lost. The whispers of the pendulum in her secret language count the beats of broken dreams.
Face time’s nameless dreadThe piano in the corner, keys yellowed with the passage of silent ghosts, knows a melody stranger than any symphony. Each note—a memory of laughter and tears intertwined, now beyond blood-formed barricades. As you touch them, truths strum like a tightrope over oblivion.
Join the dirge unsung