As twilight danced upon the edges of the known world, Margaux stood on the precipice of dusk, peering into shadows lingering just beyond sight. They whispered old secrets, carried on the winds that jostled with unseen echoes.
She remembered stories told in flickering candlelight:
"There exists a world parallel to our own, where sleep drifts not in time but in essence. Dreams crave your essence but give back nothing they borrow."
Retracing her steps through fog, Margaux paused at a rusted gate, its ironwork an intricate prison of twisted vines. Beyond that gate lay pathways untaken, stories untold. Somewhere, a clock chimed thrice, though the hour escaped her by some arcane design.
A gentle laugh summoned her from the brink. Turning, she saw a silhouette emerge from the depths—an echo of herself, perhaps, or a fragment borrowed from the night's tapestry.
Curiosity led her hereAnd the stories told themselves