Under the shroud of the midnight hour, figures clothed in desolation roam the paths of forgotten dreams. Their voices, like autumn leaves tangled in a tempest, cry out for solace. We are but shadows, etched in the twilight, seeking the last flicker of a sorrowful sun.
Once, the world breathed light, unhindered by the specter of despair. Yet time, a relentless specter, weaves its silken webs across our hearts, binding them in gravity wells of aching nostalgia.
And where do we go when the night's embrace grows cold? To the ancient chapel where the organ's mournful echo sings of what once was, or to the whispered memories held in the tombs of our souls?