Beneath the ancient library, where whispers cling to shadows as moths to a flame, an echo of unknown origin stirred. The air thickened with the breath of forgotten languages, tongues coiled in hieroglyphs charred into stone.
She descended the stairwell, her heart a compass needle wavering at the edge of the familiar. This place belonged to another world, another era β where lungs were filled with dust, and eyes saw not the now.
Beneath her fingertips, a softer language sang. Her touch pulled the moon from its perch, illuminating the darkened corners of sanity. Who wove these tales that dance like embers in a breath of tempest?
Then, in the silence thick as velvet, she understood. The symbols were not merely pictures but stories bathed in the sepulchered light, told by souls who wandered the riverbanks of time.
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