Beneath the draping whispers, the echoes seek release.
In the dim-lit corridors of Craven Hall, the spectral sighs weave stories untold. A girl, once a mistress of the domain, now carved into the stones that breathe her name. She is a whisper... she is a shadow... longing for the touch of sunlit warmth that has long forsaken her.
Listen, for there are voices that tremor in the twilight; voices calling from the depths of forgotten promises. A vow made under the wane of the harvest moon, now binding to the chill of the gravestones. Who will break the chains forged of night and mist?
The raven perched upon the ledge croaks a tale of betrayal, feathered wings trembling against the chill that clings to the air like a forgotten lover's embrace. The wind carries the remnants of laughter that once filled the grandiose halls, now a hollow eulogy to innocence lost.
Amid the cobwebbed recesses, beneath the veil, a flicker of candlelight dances. It harbors the echoes of a waltz—a ghostly, unseen partner. They float eternally, tethered by the realm's refusal to let go. Beware their steps; they tread upon broken glass and whispered dreams.