In a world suspended, draped with cobwebs of forgotten tales, the echoes of whispered legends invade the borders of consciousness. Here, dreams are not merely dreams; rather, they are living stitches sewn onto the fabric of reality. Beneath the gaze of moonlit whispers, one can almost hear the overture of shadows recounting their half-formed memories.
Echoes of giants roam amidst the whispers; those echoes are laden with uncertainty, refracting the thoughts that pierce the veil of night. Myths unravel as webs—a child's smile tangled in the looms of time, while the sun stretches fingers of light to brush against the dormant corners of ignorance.
Each corner of the alley encapsulates a story, encased in frost. Even the rusted streetlamps murmur secrets of those who walked before, their steps captured in whispers riding on autumn leaves, drifting miles away, yet eternally here. One cannot pierce the quiet with logic alone—myths, too, wear masks well.
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