Upon this lightpath, there lies a whisper—keen and sharp, like the edge of despair. Stretched beneath the pallid moon, shadows weave tales of bygone souls. Are they living, are they dead? The echoes dance as fleeting beams upon water's edge.
Listen, do you hear? The lamenting echoes from the dim edge of existence. They draw you near with spectral hands, unfurling the half-worn tapestry of forgotten time. The night air thick with an oracle's breath in twilight's embrace.
Instinctively, you walk; the cobblestones slick with night dew hint at dreams lost to the dawn. Each step whispers a secret, each glance reveals an unseen specter, hiding behind thickets of wild ivy.
The lightpath opens wide, as if breathing through ancient lungs, revealing cries muffled beneath tumultuous breaths of storms long settled. And above the din, a beacon shines—anguished, yet serene.
Journey deeper through the shadowrealm or perhaps find solace in the dreamscape.
But beware, dear traveler, for the deeper you descend into this abyss, the louder the whispers grow, wrapping your thoughts in a shroud of riddles unwound from the midnight clock.