In the year of 1903, amidst a spectrum of forgotten gears and shrines of bygone swell, stands an expanse where grains kneel, rather than yield.
The incessant pull of the horizon whispers sweet lies of permanence to those ensnared within. "Hast thou misjudged the firmament?" she murmurs, as the lingering hands of modernity brush away your name—leaving only a whisper in the ledger of earth.
Beneath the surface lies an orchestra tuned for the ears of wanderers; tunes such as "Silence of the Ashen Nymphs," composed by a specter of leather-bound melodies, never meant for daylight. Shadows dare not sing, yet they do within the prism of your internal gravity.
The witness tree, now a specter too, held secrets spoken into the parchment skin of once-living sap, attendant spirits weave among syllables lost in voices echoing from chambers only the brave or mad dare to tread.