The winds carried them, sighs at the edges of the earth, seldom heard yet deeply felt, echoing through hollow bones. Those whispers, elder than time, speak only to those willing to hear the wilting song of truth. The horizon is lined with shadows; every shadow holds a story, every story a soul.
Amongst these tales, one recounts of a crypt long forgotten, veiled beneath layers of starlit dusk and cursed soil. Here, the ground shakes not with storm nor quake, but with the trembling of immutable truth. Speak softly among the stones, for their silence hides secrets not meant for the ear of the day.
The ugliest truth is often blanketed in snow, pristine and deceptive, until the sun's insistence unearths it—Gleamless, nameless, yet potent as the poison in a dove's coo.