In the forgotten hour past twilight, there blooms a silence that weaves through cosmic strands, a lingering aroma of dreams kissed by the astral dust.
A symphony of echoes murmuring secrets of ancient worlds — murmuring, fading, ever-fading. Shadows in forgotten halls where only moonlight prayers linger aloof.
The echoes find home in the eyes of the beholder, a pilgrimage from celestial spheres unto paper cutouts of imagined realms. They leave not a trace except a soft sigh.
These heavy footsteps, a cadence of starlight pulsing in rhythmic benevolence, resonates through the corridors — through empty corridors — leading nowhere.
Each step, a relic of light clinging tenderly to the veils spun by cosmic loomers of yesteryears. Were you to follow, you would find not endings, but beginnings yet written.
Such is the epilogue of worlds turned by unseen fingers, a parchment of the void whispering lullabies unto the voyager's soul. Touch it gently, and you'll hear its heart.
Enter the Antechamber Luminous Echoes