In a chamber carved from shadows, where the flicker of candles dare not tread, an echo murmurs through the stone. It is the voice of none—yet it is everything. It reverberates against the cold walls, a sound that is not sound, a presence that is not presence.
Whispered secrets linger in the air, touching the edges of existence with an icy breath. Dreams float by like specters, their hollow eyes gazing into the abyss. Beneath the arching ceiling, a fog of forgotten words collects, weaving tapestries of dark solitude.
To walk these halls is to wander through the corridors of doubt, where every step is swallowed by a silence so profound it could drown the sun. Here, in this place of ghostly murmurs, one confronts the eternal question: in the absence of all things, what remains?