In the dim-lit corridors of forgotten realms, a whisper lingers—an echo without end. It travels through the ages, weaving tales of sorrow and shadows. The silence is a tapestry of voices unspoken, yet hauntingly present.
Consider the raven perched upon a skeletal branch—its call a dirge sung to the stars. Each note a fracture in the night, resonating through the realms of oblivion. A celestial symphony played in minor key, forever unfinished.
The clock ticks, yet time holds no dominion here. Within these walls, the past and future fold upon themselves, creating a labyrinth of eternal presence. Beneath this clock, shadows dance to a rhythm unheard, a melody of fate's own making.
Echoes named Murmurs of Stars, whispers caught in a web of night, forever seeking... seeking... seeking the light of dawn that never breaks.
These walls hold stories within stories, fractals of sorrow woven into the fabric of existence. One cannot gaze into the abyss without becoming part of the echo.