Beneath the moon's ashen gaze, the silhouettes waver.
Each phantom echo, a story untold, a secret veiled in the night's cold embrace.
In between breaths of the forest, the ancient oaks whisper warnings
of returned shadows, seeking sanctuary in hearts long frozen.
Beware the path where starlit dew no longer glimmers,
for there lies the cradle of dreams that burned and turned to ash.
A single step upon the ground reveals the touch of spectral hands,
guiding your way through the woods of sorrow.