The hall stretches beyond, a never-ending echo chamber. Silent whispers trace my steps, lingering tales etched in shadow. I am a traveler on a tapestry woven of dusk, my path entangled in threads of unseen hands.
A voice murmurs: "The traveler, the eternal traveler, must tread the weft and warp of forgotten dreams." I turn, but the voice is an echo, a phantom of the loom.
travel... travel... travel...
The moonlight bleeds through cracks, illuminating the worn paths. Yet each turn returns me to the same loom, unraveling and rewinding the past.
The shadows speak of travelers before, endless repetitions, their footsteps merging with mine. Who were they? Where are they now? Answers dissolve like mist at dawn.
weave... weave... weave...
A figure appears at the edge of light—familiar yet forgotten. It beckons, and I feel the pull of the loom's whisper, an unbroken song of the traveler.
The tapestry holds all, and yet nothing. I am both here and elsewhere, the loop ever spinning, the traveler forever wandering.
Fade... fade... fade...