The whispers speak through the cracks of abandoned doorways, winding like forgotten tendrils in the mist. Each step echoes with the unspoken dreams trapped beneath the floorboards, waiting to be awakened. Shadows stretch and contract, breathing life into the hollow chambers of this labyrinthine soul.
"Do you remember the light, or is it simply the absence that guides your wandering?"
There’s a map etched in your mind, though you never drew it. Paths diverge, corridors bend impossibly, leading where no map can guide you—into the depths of your own contemplations. Follow the echoes.
Flickering lanterns flicker not to guide but to comfort, casting dancing shadows reminiscent of fleeting moments. Here is where your heartbeat syncs with the soft rustle of whispered histories. Enter the resonance.
Each corridor, a verse in the poem of solitude, where forgotten voices cling to the walls as specters of what could have been. A symphony unseen, yet felt in every hollow sigh of the aged timber.