In the heart of a candle's dying glow, shadows stretch their fingers,
weaving secrets that echo through the corridors of time.
One hears the whispers in the rustling leaves, stories forgotten by the dawn.
"I was here," murmured a voice from the past, as ephemeral as the mist
that clung to the moonlit night.
Have you seen the paths that wander
off the edges of dreams, leading to where clocks cease their ticking?
Tormented souls dance to the rhythm of a muted dirge, a lullaby
of ancient stones.
They call from the depths of the abyss,
their songs entwined with the chill of forgotten autumns.