In the breath between ages, the forgotten whispers of ice and sorrow weave through untouched tomes. The silence of abandoned corridors hums with traces of winds once woven into stories of splendor and dread.
Tread lightly upon the phantom ink, for the imprints of glories long eclipsed cling to your soles, remnant particles of the great suns that had once burned in these halls. Here, the air thickens with the ghostly echoes of past sighs, a sonorous lament for what was and what could have been.
The stones themselves are witnesses, kept alive by memory's gentle touch. As you pass, listen closely, for the shadowed rhymes of a history erased pulse beneath their surfaces, a beat like the heart of a sleeping leviathan.
In the depths, where light dares not linger, a myriad of stories dance in the void, each an orb of forgotten life, suspended in time's cruel grip. Reach out, and feel the warmth of their lost glow.