Rising from the barren desert like the skeletal finger of a forgotten titan stood the Tower of Forgotten Dreams, a structure so vast and ancient that even the winds hesitated when passing its shadow, carrying with them echoes of voices long erased from history. Its surface was carved with intricate patterns, spirals and sigils that shimmered faintly in the moonlight, as if alive, rearranging themselves when no one watched. Within its countless levels, rooms unfolded like shifting labyrinths, halls that bent back upon themselves, staircases that ended in solid walls, and chambers filled with mirrors that reflected not the present self but distant fragments of what might have been, fragments so vivid they could break the heart of even the most resolute wanderer. Some claimed the tower was a prison for dreams abandoned by their dreamers, fragments of wishes never fulfilled, ambitions never achieved, and loves never confessed, all wandering restlessly within its endless corridors, whispering to any who dared to listen. Travelers spoke of hearing their own voices echoing from behind locked doors, reciting words they had never spoken but always wished to; they described visions of faces they had never met yet felt they had lost. No map of the tower remained consistent, for each visitor described entirely different layouts, as though the structure reshaped itself according to the deepest fears and desires of whoever entered. To climb was to confront oneself, to ascend was to risk being consumed by the very shadows of longing carried within, and to reach the summit, if such a thing even existed, meant facing the possibility that the highest truth was simply emptiness, an empty chamber where all illusions dissolved like dust. Yet still, despite the danger, the tower called, for within every human heart lies the yearning to reclaim what was lost, even if it means being lost forever in the pursuit.