The Murmur of Hollow Stones

In the castle's west wing, where whispers tread lightly across cobweb-laden floors, rumors spoke of a slumbering voice... A voice that echoed the spectral knitting of lost prayers and forgotten dreams.

Perhaps, one might say, it is the wind that mimics that sorrowful tune, but in the broken light of dusk, you will find its truth. An elder speaks with ink invisible to mortal eyes, tracing arcana patterns upon the slate of ancient walls.

"Tell me again," you plead to the veiled mirror in the dim hall, "what did the shadows find in their eternal sleep?" Yet, the mirror only sighs, a sound less heard and more felt, wrapping you in its spectral embrace.

And so the tales linger, painted not on parchment but in the spaces between moments, waiting for another soul to unseal their haunting beauty.