walk on the living they don't even mumble walk on the dead they mutter and gamble what are they
The air hangs heavy with the scent of decay, a sweet, cloying perfume that clings to the back of the throat. The living tread softly, their footsteps barely a whisper against the stone. They dont even mumble, their faces etched with a silent grief that speaks volumes.But walk on the dead, and the air shifts. A low murmur ripples through the gathered souls, a chorus of whispers and rasping voices. They mutter and gamble, their spectral forms weaving through the shadows. They are the ones who remember, who carry the weight of the past. Their eyes, aglow with an unearthly light, pierce the veil of forgetfulness.What are they? The echoes of a world gone by, the whispers of forgotten dreams. They are the keepers of secrets, the guardians of the unseen. They are the living dead, forever bound to this realm of shadows, forever searching for the answers that elude their grasp.They walk among us, unseen, unheard, yet their presence lingers in the air, a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the enduring power of memory.