There was a whisper in the storm last night, tracing the borders of sanity and spilling secrets upon the cobblestones. A raven cawed beneath the moon's abandoned glow... Did the shadows lengthen, or did time itself bend in the presence of such a cry? The door creaked open to a void filled with memories of echoes unmade.
In the corridors of forgotten places, where the air thickens with dust and despair, one finds truth entwined with delusion. Histories carve themselves into walls, second by second, as if narrating the lore of some ungodly entity.
An observation: eyes that blink not, yet scrutinize from the shadows cast by ancient alchemy. Fingers trace sigils upon skin, a language long despaired by the living. On this page, the ink bleeds tales of darkness—the kind that creeps into dreams and denies the dawn.