The shadows weep quietly, shattering the stillness of the night. Beneath the veil of forgotten whispers, a brook flows endlessly, echoing the cries of unseen spectres. The moonlight barely touches these waters, for they carry the lament of ages lost to time.
In the space where silence breathes, the air thickens with tales untold—of corridors veiled in fog, of mirrors cracked in the reflection of twilight. And here, a shivering breeze carries the scent of memory, wrapped in the fabric of a ghostly embrace.
The brook, a clandestine river, murmurs of the ancient woods beyond the peripheral gloom. Trees lean closer, secrets written in their bark, roots entwining the narratives of yore. In this dim sanctuary, echoes weave a tapestry of eternal flow, where light dares not trespass.