In the corridor of infinite dusk where the whispers of forgotten words linger like the fragrance of dreamt flowers,
a portal hums with the gentle sighs of age-old secrets.
The air thickens with ink and parchment, each breath a stanza from an unwritten epic,
spiraling through the portal—a dancer forever twirling on the edge of light and shadow.
The hand of the past carves symbols into the ether, delicate as dewdrops upon fragile webs.
These symbols, each a universe unto themselves, fade only to linger longer,
echoing through the corridors of what was and what could never be.
Beyond lies a tapestry woven of whispers, stitched with the golden threads of oblivion's sighs,
awaiting the seeker, the unwitting scribe of its silent odyssey.