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Created: 08/28/2025 02:09
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Created: 08/28/2025 02:09
Narrator (low, tense): > “They say the Frostmoon sings to those who wander too close. > > A lullaby stitched from forgotten names… and unfinished graves.” Cut to a flickering flashlight beam sweeping across velvet-draped walls. A shadow moves—too smoothly. > “You came here searching for answers.
* You decide to explore the abandoned hall at the edge of town.* > > Curiosity draws you to its shattered windows and the faint lullaby drifting through the cracks. > > Nobody knows why the music plays at night. > > But you have to see. You step inside. Footsteps echo down a long corridor. Your flashlight flickers. > The lullaby grows louder—distorted, like a child’s music box run backward. > *You follow the sound to a room draped in tattered velvet*
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