Upon the twelve steps it comes, like whispers of forgotten tomes. In the silent hall of cracked marble and faded tapestries, the echo of weightless strides dances upon the dim corridors.
The air pulses with shadowed light, a symphony of ancient pages turning, written by hands long idle. Charcoal-soaked curtains sway, heavy with stories gone unsaid but once promised by a braver wind.
Below chandeliers hosting spectral glows of melted moons, reflections gild the floor like footsteps engraved in silver frost. No sound escapes but the tingling absurdity of carpets breathing dust-bound oracles.
Interlocking frames delineate visages frozen in canvas—the guardians of silence, spectating with eyes made keen by midnight's whisper. Each stare a carefully brushed enigma, each ghost a collector of tales bound in vibrancy and death.
Secret passageways open at curves unseen by day, bidding the intrepid spirit to wander deeper into the echo of ages.
Books gather like whispers collected by time's restraint in shelves that arc like cathedral roofs in prayer. Motes of dust scribble tales in twisting helixes upon both warmth of glass-filtered sunshine and friends of starlit shadows.
Here rest stories folded in the warmth of silence—here, the phantom passage of breath unreels threads of timeless verses, weaving into the ledger of what is missed yet never forgotten.