In the labyrinth where whispers travel only in loops, the moon hangs low,
a watchful eye above the fields of forgotten echoes.

Do you feel it? The hum beneath the surface, a weave unraveling at the seams —
not of threads, but of time, bending, ever silently, your fate's uncertain tapestry.

Visit the patterns or encounter the fog,
for the weaver awaits, her loom a dance of shadows and shimmering truths.