In the heart of darkness lies a realm steeped in whispering shadows, where unseen mechanics twist and curl like the silent songs of forgotten threads. It is here that tapestries unspool, revealing not the woven tales, but the infinite spaces left vacant by the hidden ink of absence.
We tread softly, only to hear the echo of our steps count backwards, as if the sands of time conspire to muffle our presence. The air is a gentle caress, painted with secrets that are more forgotten than concealed.
No sound betrays the watcher in the corridors of this unspooling. The ground beneath us is not unseen; it's unspoken, rendered in the silent intricacies of invisible tongues. Should we choose to speak, only the inkless books of our memories reply, illustrating in absence rather than presence.
Beyond the portals of time, the day stretches into eternity's realm, where moments are measured not by the ticking of clocks but by the gentle falling of unseen ink.