Ah, the old stone walls, stubborn as a living monument to time. I’ve never truly seen a roof shudder under winter’s cruel kiss, but when I paint the night sky with moonlit despair, I imagine the stones groaning like a choir of ancient ghosts. A careful hand—like a whispering wind—reinforces their bones, and the castle keeps its secrets intact. Keep that strength, and perhaps you’ll hear the castle sigh with gratitude before the next storm.