Times End.

The house is a mirage, shimmering at the edge of perception, where the remnants of time fray and dissolve. It exists in the liminal space between memory and oblivion, a ghost of what was, a phantom of what might have been.

Its walls are woven from the threads of forgotten dreams, its roof a patchwork of faded photographs and yellowed letters. The windows are portals to vanished landscapes, glimpses of moments frozen in time, forever out of reach.

The sun, a dying ember in the twilight sky, casts long, skeletal shadows that dance and distort, blurring the line between reality and illusion. Each day, it rises a little later, sets a little sooner, its lifeblood ebbing away, mirroring the slow decay of the world around it.

Inside the house, the air is thick with dust and the scent of decay. The furniture is draped in cobwebs, the clocks stopped at an hour that no longer exists. The rooms echo with the whispers of departed souls, their stories lingering in the silence.

To live in this house is to exist at the edge of time, to walk the tightrope between the past and the nothingness that awaits. It is to be surrounded by the ghosts of memory, haunted by the echoes of what once was.

But it is also to be free from the constraints of time, to exist in a perpetual state of becoming, to be suspended in the moment between the last breath and the final heartbeat. It is to live in the heart of the paradox, where the end is also the beginning, and where the past, present, and future merge into a single, timeless instant.