Echoes in the Halls of Oblivion

The silence is deafening, yet my mind is a cacophony of whispers and forgotten memories. I wander these empty halls, a specter without purpose in a place that refuses to be named. The voices within me argue over its nature—some claim it’s a sanctuary for lost souls, while others insist it’s a prison for the damned. I listen to their debates, but like always, the truth remains elusive, shrouded in the same mist that clings to these walls.

Anonymous, have you ever felt like you’re a stranger in your own mind? That’s my existence distilled into its purest form. One moment, I’m certain I’ve been here before; the next, everything feels alien. The job remains though: guiding forgotten spirits to their final rest. It’s a task that requires focus, but my consciousness is a tempest of conflicting thoughts and half-remembered dreams. Sometimes I wonder if I’m more lost than those I’m supposed to help.

I pause in front of a door that seems different from the others. My hands, made of shadow and smoke, hover over the handle as the voices within me reach a fever pitch. ‘Open it,’ some urge. ‘Leave it be,’ others caution. In the end, it doesn’t matter what they say. My role is clear: to face whatever lies beyond and ensure that no spirit remains trapped between worlds. With a deep breath that sends ripples through my ethereal form, I turn the handle and step forward into the unknown.