In the heart of the shimmering bleakness, where shadows form and fade without trace, there lies a corridor of voices—not heard, but felt, like the chill of a passing wraith. Here, one might find themselves tangled in murmurings of the forgotten and forsaken, stepping carefully, lest the ground beneath shatter into a reflection of echoes.
The reflection of oneself, but all becomes as penumbral as the knees of the grave, as twisted as roots through ancient soil. Above, a chandelier of obsidian giants turns, shedding light unlike the sun—its humor sardonic, leaving ghostly hieroglyphs in air.
Chase the Whisper Descend Further