Have you ever noticed how the edges of things start to fray if you just leave them be? Like, really leave them be. The fabric, the words, the very air sometimes. Quiet decay, whispered secrets...
Once upon a twilight, in a place forgotten by clocks, there was a man named Elric. Or was it Eric? Names, they slip, just like sand through fingers on desolate beaches.
He had a garden, well, everyone says he did, but gardens have a way of becoming jungles if no one prunes them. Vines curling, creeping, reaching. A jungle with no sounds of birds, only an echo of whispers. “I think… I thought… maybe that was the right way…” you could hear, though who was saying it was a mystery.
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And there are rumors of a door, a doorway, an opening to a shivered past. Some say it leads to something else, others just feel a chill and turn away, leaving it locked and whispered about.
Elric—or was it Eric?—the keeper of whispered tales, now just a name etched in fading ink.