Kaelen was no longer a man, but a story. He was the silent hum in the heart of a forgotten city, the ghost of a question that had never been asked.
His thoughts were not his own, but the echoes of a world that had chosen silence over song. He was a cartographer of the spaces between words, a chronicler of the un-written.
He was a ghost-singer, giving voice to the silenced, a weaver of stories from the threads of what was not, and would never be.
He was a story that was still being written, a song that was still being sung, a world that was still being born.