Here, at the precipice of forgotten laughter and rusty dreams, the wind tells stories of the past. Each gust carries a whisper from the funhouse mirrors, distorting reality yet deeply revealing the soul.
The park lies dormant, with the Ferris wheel's skeletal frame scraping the sky, its shadow an ominous omen. Beneath the great wheel, echoes of joyful screams skitter across the fractured grounds, mockingly vibrant against the palette of decay.
In the murky depths of the ghost train, the echoes of your name linger, spoken not with familiarity but with a haunting curiosity. They're searching, these echoes, in a lexicon lost to time—an inquiry wrapped in darkness, sung in dissonant harmonies, harmonies that do not harmonize, yet complete the unsettling symphony.