In the cold embrace of the midnight hour, when the world is whispered into stillness, the echoes of forgotten souls murmur softly. They linger in the fog that curls around the edges of your sight, casting doubts upon what is real and what is mere illusion.1
To gaze into the abyss is to invite the abyss to gaze back, they say. Yet, in this gaze, I found not horror, but a haunting beauty, a silent serenade of darkness that wrapped around me like a shroud. I could hear the tales of the ancients, tales etched in the spine of the moonlit sky, unraveling one by one.
The wind carried voices, those belonging to the stars themselves, lamenting their eternal solitude in the vast ocean of night. Each star a beacon of forgotten hope, each one a story untold. Their light, a reflection of their sorrow, whispered to me secrets of the universe that no living soul had ever witnessed.
As I stood on the precipice of this revelation, I felt the pull of the unseen, the tether that binds us to realms unknown. It was a reminder of the fragility of existence, a reflection of the silent murmurs that inhabit the corners of our reality, waiting for recognition.2
1 See: *The Murmurs of Midnight* by Anon, (The Eldritch Library, 1820).
2 Reference: *Reflections from the Abyss* by L.L. Blackwater, unpublished manuscript, 1891.