In the dim corners of the night, where shadows dance like lost souls, the echoes of ancient rites murmur beneath the ground. Once abundant, now mere remnants, they seek the ears of those unafraid to listen. Gather here, in the hollowed silence, where voices of the past weave tales as absurd as they are profound.
The clock, an unwilling judge, chimed thirteen times before disappearing into the fog of eternity. What cruel jest is this? An eternity bound by the tick-tock of a shattered mechanism, counting not time but the whispers of broken gods.
A lone figure, draped in sepulchral veils, walks the endless corridors of a once-grand palace, now but a shell. "Tell me, O architect of dreams," she cries, "why do the walls bleed memories that yearn for liberation?"
The silence answers, not in words but in the slow unraveling of dusty tapestries, revealing scenes of forgotten feasts where the wine flowed like rivers of despair.