In the hushed valleys, time lost its meaning. Days lay thick with the stories of echoes unending, voices caught on the edges of the grey fog. Once, there were sunlit morns splashed across the horizon, but now the skies wear veils, heavy with the chant of forgotten names.
Here we wander, lost in cycles—a loop, a murmur. The morning light dies before it is born, a tale whispered by the ravens that watch from branches bare and brittle. Shadows dance in their eternal choreography, and we, mere silhouettes, chase the phantoms that linger just beyond reach.