They speak in shadows and static, voices from corridors unvisited. Here in the twilight gloom, their murmurs form a tapestry of forgotten names.
Do you remember the raven's call, a shriek that severed the veil between thought and the void? In the embrace of the dark, each syllable is a relic.
Enter, if you dare...
Images flicker like dying embers; countless mirrors reflect not, yet endlessly repeat. The past unravels, a tapestry of unwoven truth.
Catch a fleeting whisper, "Leave while you still can." Yet the voice is yours, echoing in a tongue not spoken, spurning light, grown fond of night.
Soon, you'll walk these halls, a pilgrim in reverse, tracing steps not taken, paths forgotten, or perhaps never begun at all.
The spectres of memory linger, tethered by threads of uncertain touch, shaping shadows that mimic the pulse of your own existence.
In this place, the only truth is repetition. The only escape is echoing silence.