In the throes of the midnight hour, when even the stars seem weary, the whispers begin anew. They murmur of forgotten realms, where trees grew twisted, and the air hung heavy with bitterness.
Once, amidst the silence of the tombs, a specter rose, its visage pale as the moonlight. It echoed across the void, a melody of dread and exquisite sorrow that tangled with the dreams of the living.
Do you hear them? The voices that drift like smoke upon a tempest sea? They speak of love lost to shadow, of promises etched in the cold of stone.