Time, merciless and indifferent, devoured everything within its grasp. What was once a dense fabric of life—a teeming city, a sacred temple, or a pulsating marketplace—fades into silence, swallowed by the earth, sheltered by nature's slow recovery.

It remains here, a fragmented and worn ruin, a mute witness to the passage of time over the centuries: the stones that once reflected polished faces on its gleaming walls now appear softened by moss and erosion into blurred edges.

The air is filled with the ghosts of what lies above such places, and the silence is dull. No bird dares to pierce the silence, not even a breeze, lest it bring a touch of reverence lest it disturb the forgotten sanctity.

However, silence is rarely empty. There is a hum behind that silence—soft, sustained—and it is as if the land itself remembers it. Memories block cracks in the rocks, roots meander through broken floors and shadows stretch across abandoned corridors. They are unspoken pieces of history, stories that were never meant to be told.

Here, in this cursed corner of the earth, history can be read from nameless ruins. The stones remember, yet their voices have become mute, only echoes remain. For those who linger long enough, listening intently, those echoes can still be heard today—a whisper of resistance against time, challenging the weight of the past on the shape of a new present. After all, some stories are lost to memory not by chance, but by necessity.