In the solemn hush of the eternal void, there exists a congregation of whispers—women in white—standing at the edge of dreams, murmurs lost to time's embrace, siding with shadows.

They call, softly, gently, their voices scattered like candle-lit embers across the velvet expanse. Each syllable hangs frozen, whispering secrets of stark eternal dusk drenched in moonlight observance. Another echo reverberates through the soulless corridors of forgotten houses . . .

Listen. The phantoms tread silently upon the cobblestone breast of this impending slumber, weaving tapestries meant for anonymous nights amidst shrouded veils and scattered memories beneath waning stars.

Archways loom immense and foreboding; their frames whisper-laden, waiting despiration, waiting patience.

Wait for their knitted voicings—woven serenades sung by phantoms from eras interred deeply beneath earth and perennial frost.