In hidden corridors where sunlight is a fleeting memory, the walls breathe softly, echoing tales untold. Each crack a whisper, each shadow a specter. Through the murmur of ages, footsteps cascade down the hall — a melody of the lost, retreating and advancing in a dance with the dusk.
Here, in the twilight's grasp, the air is laced with remnants of voices unheard. Words form specters, gliding through the ether, weaving tapestries of forgotten lore. Candle silhouettes flicker in attendance, bowing to truths beneath human vision.
The tapestry of time is intricate here; do not touch it with careless hands. Instead, listen — for the whispers carry weight. The echoes have stories to share, of worlds where reality bends around shadows and the edge of dreams.