In the twilight, where the shadows merge with the echoes, a voice rides along the phantom breeze. It speaks of tales untold, written on the fabric of the silent night. In the graveyard, whispers loom like figures wrapped in despair, haunting the corridors of reason.
A clock ticks alone in a room of forgotten dreams, every tick a reminder of the moments lost to the mist. The walls, they breathe, carving inscriptions of lament across the heart of stone. Do you feel them? The hands that reach through time's veil, tracing the outlines of your soul.
Wander past the abandoned house, where windows stare like hollow eyes into the void. Here, silence has a voice, and it calls your name in a whisper that chills the marrow of night.
The wraith-like figures dance on the edge of perception, flickering in the peripheries of your vision.