Once, in the cradle of evening's whispered sighs, an ancient river wove its story through the valley.
The waters murmured secrets in a language older than the stones that bordered their beloved course.
Some say these tales were spun from the fibers of forgotten dreams, delicate threads catching the silver thread of the moon.
As dusk fell, shadows danced upon the banks—
silent phantoms, draped in robes of ethereal mist, weaving a ballet only for the stars to witness.
The lullabies of the ancients trickled through the air like dew on rose petals, soft and haunting, calling forth the slumbering past.
Ode to Pathless Streets
Felicitas