In the heart of the ravaged mirth, a whisper dwells.
A serenade of invisible instruments, played by the guardians of dusk.
Through the beams of ghosts dancing in their webs of light, reality fizzles out.
Who hears the waltz of echoes trimmed in sanguine?
A tapestry unraveling, taut with whispers yet to live.
Suspended in the court of shadows, the songs detangle like smoke, like snow. The last note kissed by the abyss forever.