Within mechanics of the shadowed serenade, voices cloak the silence like intricate webs spun in forgotten fathoms. Here, upon the apex of silence, rivets and bolts of dire-memory converge — whispers become tangibles.
Amongst the flicker of spectral lanterns, the shadows hold a council — whispers are forgotten currencies, traded in the realms untouched by day. When the dawn breaks, what records the whispers left in void, if not the silence itself?
Enter the Presence Wisdom of Silence