In the crevices of night, a trail etched in silver mist lay before weary travelers, unseen by many. Its whispers sang haunting tales of serpents coiling, treacherously beautiful, along forgotten paths beneath the hollow moon.
Once, in a village swallowed by fog, where shutters remained eternally closed, a story brewed—of a figure cloaked in ivy and shadows, bearing secrets too profound for trembling lips.
Above the ravine's edge where owls spoke a language of lost memories, the ancient serpent lay still, unyielding. Its gaze pierced through time, unraveling stories wrinkled and curling like dried leaves in autumn's embrace.
The echo of a single bell tolled in the distance, fading to silence, marking the end of an era untouched by light, locked within the unread tales bound in dust and cobwebs.