Forgotten Echoes

“I saw the raven again,” she whispered.

Amidst the crumbling stones of yesteryears, where light dares not to linger, voices drift like spectral smoke. They weave stories never told, of nightshades and whispered secrets.
“Did you hear the wind?” he murmured, barely above a sigh, “It carries their names... the ones who tread here before us.”

“They say the owl hoots thrice, a warning of sorts,” she replied, shadows flickering in her eyes. The hallway stretched endlessly, adorned with cobwebs that danced to the rhythm of forgotten dreams.

Behind the velvet drapes of memory, the echoes linger in corners unseen:

• “Our kingdom is but a whisper away...”
• “The door will not open until the moon bleeds...”
• “Have you ever danced with shadows?”

Their words, steeped in mist and melancholy, seem to weave a tapestry of dusk and dawn, realms where reality blurs into the surreal. And yet, amidst the fading light, a faint smile touches the edges of the unknown.