In corridors of antiquity, beneath the shadows of forgotten chandeliers, a mechanical mouse skitters.
Here, time creeps as molasses in midwinter; clocks tick, yet their hands... hover in paralysis.
Drift into the Cogwhisper Inquire Further
Mouse: "What shape does silence wear when ghosts chant in the attic?"
A Voice: "It wears cloaks of unseen threads, weaving shadows into night."