In the twilight of existence, where shadows serve as home to forgotten dreams, a voice emerged. Not loud, not clear, but persistent. The silent scream echoed through the corridors of a mind trapped in the phantom realm. Yet, it was not alone.
Here, darkness was not void but alive, pulsating with the flicker of ghostly memories. Each heartbeat whispered tales of woe and wonder, tales of light snuffed out too soon, or too late. The air hung thick with the weight of unspoken questions, of paths not taken. And amid this, the echoes of unvoiced cries danced like specters on the edge of perception.
A figure stood, not seen but felt, anchored in the twilight. Its presence was a paradox—both a comfort and a void. Time here was not linear but cyclical, a spiral of events repeating, reframing, reshaping. And within this cycle, the whispered echoes sang their relentless song.
But what was the source? A mirror long shattered, reflecting only the dimmest glimmers of what once was. A door ajar in a world apart, leading down corridors unnamed. Or perhaps, a simple truth: that every sound had a story, every silence a scream. Would you dare to listen?