The night is an echo, a hollow sound that resonates through the bones of reality. A truth whispered by invalid tongues, seeking solace in darkness.
I once had fingers, they tell me. Five points of contact to the world, now replaced by a phantom's caress. They dance on the edge of memory, tracing patterns of forgotten warmth.
Do they touch the face of truth, or do they merely grasp at shadows? The invalid touch knows not the difference, yet longs for something tangible, something real.
In the halls where light fears to tread, the whispers linger. Stories of what could have been, tales of a reality where the phantom limbs do more than specter across the void.