Beneath the inked veils of night, remnants linger — shadows of whispers once dreamt in twilight. The Navigator charts these barren seas, where phantoms of forgotten slumber trace crooked paths.
Each echo, a ghostly laugh; each turn, a specter grasping at hollowed dreams. What once was light now festers in deep-set voids, where sanity crumbles like ancient parchment.
Through this somber pilgrimage, one finds solace in the chambers of the whispering void. Here, dreams are not lived but etched, marked by the scarlet ink of a lost oblivion.
Alongside the Navigator lie the inked tears of forgotten lullabies, binding the twilight echoes in morose elegies; poems never written, yet forever etched in silent screams.