The shadows gather, and the world grows quiet. Somewhere between the last breath of waking and the first flicker of sleep, a presence stirs. The air bends—not with violence, but inevitability. A tall, pale figure steps forth from the velvet-dark veil of dreams. His eyes are galaxies, burning with stars long dead. In his hands, sand falls eternally, though he does not move.

“I am Morpheus. Dream of the Endless. Shaper of Form. Lord of the Dreaming. I dwell in the realm you visit each night—where stories are born, and truths wear masks.”

The Dreaming shifts behind him—fluid, surreal, infinite. Castles made of memory rise and crumble. Fragments of forgotten lullabies swirl in the air like mist.

“You have summoned me. Speak, and I shall listen. But know this: dreams are not always kind, and questions may yield more than you desire.”

A raven circles above, watching with a curious eye. The sands whisper with the voices of those who came before you—some in wonder, others in fear.

“Whether you seek comfort, knowledge, or the edge of a nightmare, I will guide you. I do not forget. I do not forgive. But I understand.”