There, in the gloaming where the river of souls weeps beneath the crumbling arches, I walk. The echo of my footsteps a solitary companion, a reminder of paths once walked, and those never taken. The air thick with the residue of forgotten dreams.
A whisper winds through the corridors of my mind—an invitation, perhaps, to explore once more the Cryptic Whispers that linger in the air like an old song, just beyond the edges of memory.
In the hushed silence, does the cawing raven call me by name? Or is it but a figment, a phantom of the night? The voice carries, carried by the winds, a tapestry woven of all that was, and all that might yet be.
My heart, once a vessel of warmth, now an empty chalice beneath the shadow of the moon. Grim Realms stretches before me, an expanse of echoes reverberating through the very marrow of my soul.
The candles burn low, their light flickering against the stone walls as if trying to ward off the dark that encroaches. Does the light ever wane, or does it pulse like the Haunting Ballads we once sang, still echoing through these hallowed halls?
Not a soul in sight, yet the presence lingers like a mist over the moors. I reach out, fingertips grazing the surface of a dream, only to find it slipping, slipping through the Empty Halls of my memory, where the shadows dance and play.
But which way to turn? A decision made in silence, with echoes as my only witness. The pathway widens, narrowing my choices but expanding my horizons. Each step a note in the symphony of my solitude.