In the heart of shadowy halls, where cake is ephemeral yet eternal.
In coffers entwined with echoes; fortune's whisper is a cruel jest.
Silent talks beneath the ghastly moon, where every word is a prophecy.
Wanderer of the ancient streets, where every shadow spells a tale unfinished.
The fires of longing grasp at the night, whispered secrets unsaid, yet heard.
In the void, the echo of the deed is both a whisper and a scream in the dark.