Entranced by refracted luminescence, you stumble upon the obelisk—an ineffable monument to ambition and decay, standing stubbornly amidst a tapestry of vibrant entropy.
Built under starlit whispers and boisterous laughter, its crystalline surface once captured the heartbeat of the city. Now? A ghostly echo. A single crack snakes across the base, a reminder of an age when lumens danced without a care.
Circling its base, you extend a fingertip toward the glyphs inscribed—stories of bustling markets, fervent painters, and cacophonous harmonies. They pulse with unspent energy, yearning to break free from their glass prison, to join the forgotten chorus of a world unbound.
One misfit's tale, scratched askew, weaves a curious picture of crowded squares and raucous parades—a vibrant sea fading into memory, like the shivering whisper of a song that never was. Yet here, beneath your touch, the rhythm lingers, aching to transcend its crystalline confines.