In the veil of night, the alphabet withers, twisted into grotesque forms; each letter a specter of its former self. Whispering truths, the ink drips like the last breath of a fading soul. A test of memory, where sounds become shadows, and forgotten syllables dance through the void, taunting the lost.
What is lost when the ink fades? Is it not love? A word like a dagger; silenced echoes of the unsaid dread swirling in still air, awaiting the silence of dusk.
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