The corridors stretched infinitely, their walls bedecked with murals of timelessness that could never actually fade. In the dim light, a figure moved; not a specter in the traditional sense, but rather something that blurred the edges of reality at its mere presence.
Footsteps tap-danced with gothic echo, ricocheting along marbled surfaces, imbued with the smell of salt and old books. One alcove held a whispering window, through which nothing was seen but untouched sea and sand. Hollow were these halls, as hollow as the promise of an unanswered call.
A flickering light sputtered over the words etched into a brass plaque:
The Observer is Always Watching
Below it, additional paths branched out—each promising stories wrapped in patterns only the keen-eyed would ever comprehend: