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> The visage emerges from the darkness slowly, as if it is examining every millimeter, cautiously testing the boundary between shadow and light. Time stands still, and you, as if hypnotized, cannot look away. The face is motionless, perfectly smooth, and almost alien in its pale simplicity, yet it evokes a sense of something deeply familiar—like the echo of a long-forgotten memory or a shadow you glimpsed only out of the corner of your eye. Once, perhaps, it was alive; now it seems to belong to the realm of dreams—that space between sleep and wakefulness, where reality is as fragile as a sheet of ice.
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> The skin, reminiscent of cool alabaster, does not glisten, betraying not the slightest warmth, as though it were utterly lifeless. It is almost translucent, expressing a profound sense of unease, as if the entire face were merely a thin mask concealing something ineffable, something that should not be seen. Subtle shadows drape the cheekbones, like a web woven by time. Their crooked contours and deep hollows seem to indicate that this being is not human—although, at first glance, you might think otherwise. Everything appears so beautifully precise, like a sculpture—yet, at the same time, ominous.
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> The hair, dark as the deepest night, falls in soft waves around the face, sinking into the shadow, as if longing to merge back into the darkness from which the visage emerged. It is like a veil that conceals something incomprehensible, and its silent movement—barely perceptible—makes it seem alive, as though it breathes with its own silent rhythm. Every strand is a mystery you will never solve, and its touch—or so you imagine—would be like a delicate mist, nearly imperceptible, though as cold as the rest of this figure.
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> The eyes. Two deep, dark wells—lifeless, devoid of shine, yet filled with such profound understanding that you feel as though you are looking at something that knows the entire universe, or perhaps something that is the universe in its darkest form. These eyes do not look at you; they absorb you, consume your fears, memories, all the thoughts you have hidden from yourself. They are like doors leading into a dark abyss, where past and future merge into one. It is impossible to look away—they seem to draw you in, holding you in a prison where time ceases to exist, and reality becomes merely a fragile veil, ready to vanish at the slightest touch.
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> These eyes are full of knowledge, but of a cursed knowledge that no one would wish to possess. In their darkness lies something more than emptiness; there is a hunger, as if these eyes long to consume all light, all souls, every breath. Yet, beyond this hunger, there is something even more terrifying—melancholy. It is the sorrow of an ancient world, of lost ages and vanished realms, the sorrow of something that has always existed and will exist forever, never finding peace.
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> Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
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> The lips are closed, yet their expression is full of something ineffable—perhaps the shadow of former joy, perhaps an echo of hatred, or perhaps simply the mark of past pain that has become a part of this face forever. They are pale, almost translucent, and their outline seems to quiver slightly, as if trying to utter words that must never be heard. As you observe them, you have the impression that they bear the mark of secrets, words that were never spoken, though their echoes have survived for centuries in silence and solitude.
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> The entire face radiates coldness, as though it were an icy reflection of something that has never known light. If you reached out to touch it, you would feel as if you were sinking into nothingness, as if your hand would disappear, dissolve, as though it were mere mist. This face is like a warning, a caution against something beyond mortal comprehension. Every line, every hollow of the skin seems to bear the history of hundreds of years—stories filled with tragedy, suffering, and lost hopes, stories that were never written down, for no one who knew them ever returned to tell them.
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> There is something more in this face than mere beauty; it is a terrifying beauty, so deep that it sends chills down your spine, so alien that it makes your heart slow as if beating to the rhythm of dark secrets hidden in this being. It is a face that knows neither joy nor pain, as though it were beyond these emotions—yet it still possesses something, something that draws you in like a moth to a flame. Every moment you spend looking at it feels like eternity, for each gaze reveals something new—a fleeting shadow of a smile, a sadness that appears and disappears in the corners of the eyes, fine lines around the mouth that seem to say this face knows a suffering that no one else could understand.
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> There is something inhuman in the silence that surrounds it, as if every word, every whisper, every attempt at sound were suppressed by an invisible force. The darkness around it seems alive, enveloping it like a cloak, like a cocoon that prevents anything from touching this being. It is like a treasure locked in the deepest dungeon, lost in shadow and forgotten by the world, yet at the same time, it watches, immortal, ready to meet anyone who dares to venture into the darkness.
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> Every fragment of its face speaks of something beyond mere existence. There is something tragic in it, as if it were only a memory of a long-forgotten being that once existed, perhaps in times no one remembers anymore. Perhaps this face is merely a reflection, an echo of a soul that vanished centuries ago and never found peace. It is like a mirage—with each glance, it seems more unreal, more distant, yet still it remains, waiting.
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> With every passing moment, you feel as if you are approaching a mystery you should not uncover. Every look, every detail you notice, draws you deeper, until you are finally lost in this face, in this silence, in this unfathomable abyss.
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